Nightrunner
by Rushwriter
Summary: Pre:Underworld. Searching for the carrier of Corvinus' blood, Lucian abandons his post for an adventure up north. Slight horror, vague romance, and a taste of winter. New Chp. 14: A Sense of Longing Note: Story will be completely rewritten after Prelude.
1. Chapter 1: The Roguish Seer

**Chapter I : The Roguish Seer**

_2001 A.D._

_Hamburg, Germany  
Time: 11:48 pm_

Walls covered in newspaper and grime, the unwashed air smelling of blood, skin, flame and tallow drippings. The sickly-sweet aroma of candlewax and bile spreading across the floor, making strange and unforgiving shapes upon the wood. The windows had been boarded up...and the room was dank. From the darkness, a harsh, crooning chant emerged. A woman's voice, broken and catching as a tuneless record scratching its way through silence...

"_Fluorescent lights flickering on, off, on, off," _she muttered, fingers weaving through air. Barely able to complete a word before moving onto the next. _"B-b-blood stains, broken glass, old bottles, brown suitcase, straight-back chair by the window ledge. Tracks on the ground. Empty birdcage. Line of ants b-by the hallway. The door s-stands open." _Her tone quickened abruptly, the dips and stutters absent as she found her voice finally._ "Outside the door stands a man. Between his fingers lies a gun. The trigger goes off."_ As if the record had ceased, the woman's hand collapsed...the hand faltering against her chest, her limbs no longer able to sustain the silent movement.

"When?" he whispered coldly. Calm and calculating with his eyes to the door. A tune with purpose…sharp and precise, even when leaning over the blood and filth spattered across the bed.

"_Two days," _she said, her fingers now languidly tracing a path along his neck.

"His name?"

"_His name is…n-no…b__etween his fingers lies a gun. The trigger goes—shhh…"_ She cut off with a shudder, blind and _caught_ in the trappings of her own mind. The scrawny legs kicking and flailing as she suddenly tried to claw his eyes out. Impatient, he snatched her hand, forcing the trembling fingers still. Watching the burnt features of her face calm as he repeated the question, keeping her wrist trapped.

She would be dead within a month, he knew. Two at the most. A year ago he might have cared, but no longer. The damage had been done, and the woman robbed of her strength. Even her talons remained stunted…nibbled and gnawed to the skin. She vaguely pulled at his arm, but soon, _losing_ _interest_, began muttering again…"_Smashed linoleum, crumbling walls, newspapers covered in grime…fluorescent lights, flickering on, off, on, off, on, off…broken glass, old bottles, brown suitcase…"_

Exasperated, he moved on to other concerns…

"_Where_ then?"

"…_rot and mold, bathroom tiles need scrubbing_…_blood on the m-m-marketplace floor…North_."

_The battle raged on. _Caught in another vision, she shook her head violently against the bed, struggling against her captor. The right arm dead against her side. Ignoring the filth, he leaned forward, hissing the next question into her ear, pulling the dying creature closer and almost cradling her unsteady form. Gripping her arm as he steered her closer to the answer he sought…

"His blood is pure?"

"_He hits you…"_

"Tell me his _name_…"

"_Who_?" she whispered, finally hearing his voice again.

"The _man!_"

Her eyes opened. Blue, violent and deadly. The last vestiges of her beauty twisted by the touch of a _true_ nightrunner's tail. Almost sane for a moment, she wrenched herself from his grasp and crawled from the bed, her sudden speed uncanny in the face of her wounds as he jerked back, wary of sharp teeth and blunt nails. She crossed the room in a millisecond and crouched lazily by the window, hazily whispering, holding onto her secrets and yet pointing the scarred fingers towards him who stood by the bed…

"His name is…"

And suddenly, hushing her own lips, she began to snicker, _mad_ and smiling with the answer before she spoke it. Wrapped in her mirth, she slid to the floor, taking care to push her head firmly against the window ledge…licking her dried lips and rubbing her hand back and forth, back and forth upon the wooden floor. Quieting down, the burnt seer raised her arm again, pointing her finger once more at him before softly whispering…

"…_You._"

_Sccreeeechh_…

The sound of a passing train _destroyed_ her mind in the few minutes he had left. Iron screeching, lights flashing on, off, on, off as the nightrunner tore past the hunter's window. Shattered and skewed as a rusty track rising on a broken crescendo. _An echo in the distance to most humans, but deafening to the trained ears of immortals. _He frowned into the chaos, ignoring the sound of her screams in such close proximity to the train, scowling as he watched the vampire dissolve further into her madness. By the time she finished venting her terror, the borrowed blood would wear off…and he would receive no more answers…

Calling the nurse, he turned and left, his thoughts running before him as he memorized everything he'd heard…

_Fluorescent lights flickering…Blood stains, broken glass, old bottles, a brown suitcase, a straight-back chair by the window ledge. Tracks on the ground. An empty birdcage. A line of ants by the doorway. The door stands open. Outside the door stands a man. Between his fingers lies a gun. The trigger goes off. Smashed linoleum, crumbling walls, newspapers covered in grime, rot and mold, the bathroom tiles need scrubbing_…

_Blood on the marketplace floor…_

_North, she said…which meant Norway._

_Trondheim, Norway… or Kaupangan as it was once called...the "marketplace." __Of all the vampire-infested territories to go gallivanting during winter, it had to be Trondheim…_

_But so the lycans run_… he thought bitterly, stalking from the broken-down building as he went over the rest of her words. Keeping to the shadows and masking his trail. Ever on his guard as he loped towards a dark limousine waiting beneath a bridge several hundred yards away…

_…o…o…o…_

_Hamburg Harbour.  
Time: 12:09 am_

A tall, tremendous man of dark skin stood leaning against a shadowy underpass overlooking the harbour-front. Dropping a cigarette on the ground, he inhaled deeply, tasting ash on his breath and curling further into his jacket. The dangerous warmth marred by silver on the previous night and the culprit dead. Save for the vehicle running idly behind him, the grounds were deserted. Smoke rising from a distant fire, the air mingling with ice. The wet sound of water lapping against boat horns in the distance. It was full moon, and most thought it wise to avoid the oldest lycan left alive in this war. The most powerful werewolf of the past six-centuries, or so the vampires thought._ Raze, they called him. One whose name meant destruction. _Even his lycan comrades had bought into the legend, his carnage and brutality only fuelling the flames. His eyes trained on the far-off blaze in the distance, he suddenly bowed his head in submission, knowing he was no longer alone. Facing downwind, he'd not even sensed the other presence until it was a mere two feet away.

The tell-tale scent of oak, leather, blood...and gun oil.

_...Lucian had returned._

Materializing from shadows, the hardened leader stepped forward, folding his arms sternly in front of him and joining Raze at his post. Seemingly ignoring the blaze across the harbour. Blood smudged across his neck, his once-handsome features now harsh in the moonlight, grey-eyed and pale of skin. He leaned against the tall pillar, his black fur-lined coat hanging open to the wind. The shock of so much dark hair fleeing past his shoulders, unruly locks almost tame. A beard so neatly trimmed in the wake of all this hunted abandonment...

Raze shifted his obeisance forward and fixed his eyes on his leader. "I heard a train…" he began, the growling tone of his voice rumbling in the depths of stone.

"And what of it?" replied the lycan master, cold and aloof as he turned from the colossal industry of Hamburg harbour to stare evenly at his second-in-command. His voice, miles from the grit of Raze's throat. His words, rich and soothing…every sentence exuding a deep, unnatural calm which oftentimes hid the tremendous anger raging berneath…

"Given her past, I assumed that she might find it..._uncomfortable_." Cautiously, Raze held his breath as soon as the last word escaped his tongue. _Six hundred years and still he could not gauge the lycan master's reactions to save his life. Uncomfortable had been a diplomatic way of saying torturous._

Lucian shrugged coldly, the light not quite touching his eyes. "She's _fine._" Though his words were quiet, his expression had become increasingly penetrating, the dark pupils narrowing in the moonlight. He did not turn back to the harbour, and relentlessly, his grey-eyes continued to scrutinize Raze. Unswerving, bold and without qualm...as if to pry out any secrets that might be lurking...

_Secrets..._

Quickly, Raze focused his attention on the ground instead. The sight of cigarette butts. The cold scent of a chain-smoker. _It was not wise to stare the lycan master in the eye._ _The man had grown paranoid of late, tense whenever returning from his sojourns to the Nightrunner's abode._ _The abandoned building where she lurked. The strange and fleeting scenes she saw in lycan blood_...but Lucian would no longer talk of visions to him. From what he knew, there was nothing to speak of regardless. The blood no longer stayed down...the visions were broken. Disconnected. She couldn't discern truth from lies and spoke without ceasing, grossly unaware of those around her. _He could feel Lucian's eyes boring into the side of his head. _The last time he'd been allowed to accompany the lycan master, the woman had begun screaming the moment she saw him lurking by the door. The cruel sound of Lucian laughing in bitter appreciation as Raze left the room, unnerved by the blood-seer's presence. The changes that the sun had wrought upon her mind as well as her body.

_She was much changed from the woman she had once been..._

_…an exile from the vampire side. A visionary of the blood. Strange creature, some would call beautiful, brought to them by Tanis as pawn of payment. Many had objected at the time, but within a century, s__he had taken to her lycan jailers as if they were her own kind, adopting their ways and fighting their war...eventually bedding their leader. Two years ago, it all ended. __A scouting party found her burned and crushed beside the tracks…still breathing. Trapped by the sun's rays and cowering beneath a shadowy nook. The seer struck down by the very trains she used to frequent…_

_It was almost fitting…_

…_though Lucian had not taken the news well._

As if eavesdropping on that very thought, the leader abruptly moved from the pillars, yanking the dark limousine open and slamming the door shut behind him, obviously eager to be gone. Nodding at the unspoken order and striding swiftly round to the other side, Raze entered the car as well and signalled the driver to move on. The icy wind followed their trail, and in moments, the scent of gun oil and cigarette smoke was gone from the air. As if it had never been.

_…o…o…o…_

_Streets of Hamburg.  
Time: 12:20 am_

The light of full moon stretched across tinted windows as they pulled out from beneath the bridge. Tensing slightly, Raze curved himself further into the seat, feeling the bones creak beneath his skin while keeping his lycan form at bay. He allowed the Change to continue in his mind. His head lengthening…the spinal cord warped and twisting as his bones cracked. All in his mind, as Lucian had taught. Watching from the corner of his eye, he observed how the alpha himself had not moved a single muscle. In truth, it had been years since anyone had seen him change his form completely, and oftentimes, Raze wondered how a lycan could willingly remain trapped in human form when he stood as alpha over all twelve packs of the horde. Recently, he'd even begun to suspect the lycan master of buried reasoning. Secret thoughts that Lucian would by no means entrust to his second-in-command, let alone a friend…

…but Raze suspected.

_Shame…_

_Lucian was ashamed of his lycan form…_

_But it had never been a source of shame to Raze_..._and inwardly, the trapped lycan began to howl silently, proud of his stature and might…_where the master was born and raised beneath the condescending rule of vampiric authority, Raze had lived freely since the day of Change. Since the night he had killed his own patriarch…tearing the throat of the lycan who stole his mortality. Fleeing his people and fighting stalwartly, keeping his hide as he evaded mortals, vampires, and lycans alike across the Moorish nights. Lord of his own destiny until the hour Lucian forced him to his knees, garnering the undying respect and faithfulness of ages…

_Hear how my soul howls and roars from the ramparts! I am Raze, both power and strength incarnate! First lycan to the alpha himself! Who would dare attack our forces when such a vengeful warrior holds sway over the…_

His flesh body flinched as he realized he had been spoken to. _Twice_.

"_What_?" Raze asked dimly, having heard not a single word. The lycan master had turned from the dark window, and was now staring coldly at his second-in-command, his patience obviously hanging by an _extremely_ thin thread.

"I said…" a mild gritting of teeth as Lucian repeated his words a _second_ time. "…what _news_ from the North?"

_The North? Was this a test?_

Coughing his confusion away, Raze frowned, regaining his throat, swallowing his unheard howls and answering swiftly, relieved that for once, he held up-to-date knowledge of the northern outskirts of lycan territory…

"Their pack remains split along two supply lines, restricted with the darkness. Less than six hours of daylight. Deathdealers sighted in main cities, but no attacks yet. Magnus keeps the road clear."

Lucian nodded thoughtfully, his eyes drawn to the window again, watching the close-knit walls of Hamburg and tapping his fingers edgily along the ledge. Following the man's gaze, Raze stared through the glass as well, gathering that a change had come over the lycan master's mood.

_The man was planning something…a change of base perhaps? A restructuring of forces?_ _It had been a decade since the horde established itself in Hamburg, the last few years spent holing up in the abandoned sectors, the majority of the pack moving among sewers. Their leader lived the life of a __dead__-man. Perhaps a decade too long considering his growing edginess of late._

"And the den?"

Once again, Raze answered quickly, unwilling to betray any misunderstanding or doubt. "Conditions are stable. Two dozen souls kept on reserve._"_ His mouth closed on the last word, his mind thinking swiftly as he entertained the possibilities. Aware that there must be _some_ line of reason behind this inquiry.

_A raid then? Orders to be sent north? In winter? Only a fool waged war in winter. The vampires had extra hours of pitiless night, while lycans froze their skin off in the snow. They were just as susceptible to cold in human form as regular mortals, and by now, even the most renegade of their forces had realized that guns and ultraviolet bullets required fingers rather than claws. No…not a raid. Lucian is no fool, _reasoned the dark lycan fiercely to himself, unwilling to think ill of the lycan master's plans even as he considered the best approach for questioning him. Unfortunately, his chance was lost…

"Excellent." Lucian murmured softly, staring straight ahead as he fished out a cell-phone and began dialing. His next words dropping like a quiet wind using a bombshell to shake the barley. "Consider yourself in charge for the next three days."

Barely controlling the urge to spit blood from his bitten tongue, Raze twisted to stare at the dispassionate man on his right, his heart sinking, questions running through his head as he tried to grasp onto what had occurred...

_It was absurd!_

_The man had no right to place him in charge. Always, if a secondary alpha was to be chosen, even for a few days, the twelve pack-leaders were to choose among themselves. Such a thing had happened only twice in the past half century, and both times, Briceus had been the first choice. Raze was just the decoy. The visual head of the horde, closest to the alpha in terms of proximity...but he was no pack-leader. If the twelve even suspected Lucian was running another expedition, they might find themselves facing a confrontation. As if the incident last time wasn't enough!_

Rapidly starting to resemble a thunder-cloud, Raze finally grunted in frustration, stretching his jaws around a heated argument on the imprudence of…

…but Lucian's hand had already waved him into silence, the man's tongue switching easily into unaccented German as he began speaking on the phone, his fingers absently playing with a leather cord tied around his neck and no longer tapping edgily along the window ledge. The occasional word in English betraying an absence of wording for a few of the more recent technological advances…

Pretending to be grimly interested in the brown stitching of his coat, Raze listened intently, harbouring his questions as he waited for his chance to speak…

_Arrangements. Travel excursions. Something about_…

…_Norway?_

_What reason would Lucian have to visit the northern front?_

_…o…o…o…_

_Five minutes later._

Flipping his Nokia shut, Lucian stowed the miniature mobile in his trench-coat and nestled himself further against the leather lining of his seat. Eyes starting to close as he contemplated the possibility of moving beyond this hellish existence. He was weary…tense, but weary above all. The exhaustion etched into his bones, sinking even further through the marrow. Still stroking the cord around his neck, he bit back a desultory yawn, barely noticing the tautness of form keeping him from making the Change. _All in the mind_, he thought, stretching his jaws around a second yawn, barely covering his mouth in time. Banishing the burnt seer's face from his mind and perfectly aware of the dire mountain of anger grinding its teeth on his left. He still had a good twenty minutes to go before they reached the home district and already, he was on the verge of falling asleep. Unless death-dealers dropped out of the seams, a limo was the perfect setting for a short wintry nap.

Dark interior. Sound-proof. Pleasantly upholstered seats. Smooth shock-absorbers.

_The only thing missing was the insufferably loud voice of…_

_...Raze._

As if on cue, the dark lycan to his left suddenly rumbled deeply, the words seeming to rise from some stony reservoir stored in the man's throat. "Norway, Lucian? _Trondheim_? Every communication we've had suggests quiet reserve, but even Magnus would balk at sending himself into the heart of…of _that_. Forgive me, but how is this action prudent for the good of the horde? The Nightrunner seldom speaks truth anymore. If you are caught, not only will our truce be _compromised_…but centuries of secrecy gone through a simple sighting." Obviously frustrated, the man's fist pumped against the seat. "One sighting, Lucian, and we are _ruined_."

_Ruined?_

_How dramatic Raze had become in recent years..._

_Though in one resepct, the man was right. M__ost soldiers assumed Budapest was the worst place to get killed by a vampire. The older lycans knew better. In Budapest, they caught you, tortured you, and killed you. In Trondheim, they caught you, tortured you, tortured you, tortured you, and then several months later, you began to wonder why your skin was missing and you had no teeth. The coven in those parts was one of the most unpredictable wildcards in Europe, making contact with Budapest about once every quarter century. Even Kraven preferred to remain south of their border…_

Already feeling a headache coming, Lucian calmly pressed his right index finger against his temple, massaging the trouble spot...trying fruitlessly to regain that one moment of relaxation. Lying in the dark, he'd been able to ignore that which could not be ignored. To forget things he could not forget. But he'd be damned if he was going to argue with Raze on this matter. If the home den couldn't survive for three days on its own, then their cause was _indeed_ in a sorry state of affairs.

_"Two days," the Nightrunner had said._

_Two days until Corvinus' blood could be in his grasp...the mutual ancestor of vampires and lycans used for the good of the horde. The start of a new era when lycans could become hybrids...half vampire, half lycan. He could only surmise on the power of such a creature. Fleeting and haphazard as it was, t__he seer's__ blood-sight had worked once..._

_Fate be with him, let it work again..._

"Lucian, I _must_ be allowed to accompany you in this…"

"_Enough_," Lucian hissed, quieting his subordinate with a brutal glare, and prepared himself to…_share_…some of his reasoning. _Share his thoughts._ He hated having to explain every step to a process, but at the very least, he knew he could easily sway Raze towards his final decision.

_He'd even be civil about it._

Adopting a well-mannered smile, Lucian forced himself to speak, already feeling the iciness of calm tracking its way across his skin…

"Think of it as a holiday, oh _Anxious_ One…" he murmured. Still smiling, he could feel the prickle of Change calling to him, vaguely aware that his teeth were already a fraction of an inch longer than a moment before. He fought it. All lycans lived by the dredges of discipline he'd taught them, but an iron hand required decorum in its application. "I am the one lycan the vampires are no longer looking for, and as such, I am the most likely candidate for this trip. If the Nightrunner speaks truth, our entire war will come to a head in two days…and if not, we are at an impasse regardless. But do not think, Raze, that I have lost sight of the fact that we _are_ on a battlefield. I can only trust that you remember risks are required for the greater good. A risk that I am willing to take."

Watching Raze from the corner of his eye, he paused to let the effect of his words settle...and then resumed in a tone that brooked no argument. "As for yourself, do not set foot outside of Hamburg. Keep to the shadows, check with Singe daily and rule the home pack. If I catch wind of a single skirmish or even suspect that you've informed the Twelve of my actions...then I suggest you find Ordoghaz and beg _them_ for sanctuary. No doubt Kraven can find you a place on his wall."

_Unfortunately, his last sentence was spoken through a grit of teeth rather than a smile…_

_…but he was a tyrant, not a miracle-worker._

Assuming the conversation was over and finding his phone again, Lucian flung his grumbling subordinate from his mind and began searching for the games features. Ten more minutes, and 'Anxiety' plus 'Raze' did not make a good combination.

_The man was grasping at straws if he thought to sway his decision. The benefits of the venture outweighed any loss they might suffer, and if indeed he fell in battle, there were policies in place that made sure the war would carry on without his leadership._

Squinting slightly, Lucian frowned at the tiny screen as he admitted the secondary, less obvious reason for his sudden inclination towards leaving Hamburg for three days…one locked deep within his subconscious. One that generally wasn't approved of when factoring in the heavy price of war. Ten years he had lived in Hamburg, lying low…keeping his identity under wraps. Devoting his every waking moment to the cause. Of course, his main concern was the capture of this…this man…in Trondheim…of course, it might lead to the blending of species he had worked so diligently towards for almost a half century_…_

…_but for the love of blood, he was feeling restless as a pup on crack._

_He hated the city. He hated his pack. He hated his quarters._

_Excuse enough to go north…_

"But why now?" Raze growled abruptly again, breaking the silence and causing Lucian to wince faintly as a tiny little buzz signified the death of a virtual battleship. "All she has done is lie since the accident. Her mind is gone. Her gift is gone…" The words sounded like a curse. "Two years she has spoken in tainted visions, Lucian, and not once have you acted since the death of Liam. If the Twelve even _knew_ you were still seeking her counsel, you could be challenged on it. Two false leads and a dead lycan later, you _know_ this seer speaks no sense..."

"Perhaps," Lucian replied absently, still intent on fiddling with his mechanical toy. Unlike many of the older lycans, he had embraced the modern century. Technology was the weapon of war, and cell-phones were a godsend. "Considering that she heard my voice this time, I can only assume that our chances may have increased by a slight percentage." He couldn't mask the irritation in his voice at being argued with. "In any event, the territory hasn't been inspected in years. Lest we become like our enemies, I'd rather keep the northern forces allied with my own." Still attempting to ignore Raze while having a conversation with him, he stabbed the key pad, squinting at the likelihood of a battleship on the right-hand corner of the screen…

_To think, only a century ago, they would have needed couriers to plan this journey…and now, a few words spoken into an encrypted metal box and he was on his way. Fascinating…_

"_Inspection_?" Raze muttered, shaking his head and staring again out the window. "There is no _need_ for inspection in a place that dark. The northern lycans are loyal to a man. Magnus holds the road, and you…you wrestle your fate for the sake of a whim, Lucian. _A__ll for a burned carcass of a…"_

Something snapped abruptly. Bones tensing as the white light of terrifying silver glazed over narrowed eyes, talons only a fraction from ripping into Raze's throat, the other man's head caught in a vicelike grip that made it simple for Lucian to speak quietly into the other lycan's ear, "I am _finished_ arguing over this matter, Raze. The date is set, and tomorrow I leave with dawn. If you wish to serve me well…" He growled forebodingly, hissing the last words. "…hold the damned reins while I go _north_."

Drawing ferociously back as he released his grip, Lucian tossed the crumpled phone on the seat between them, focusing his sight instead on the tightly packed city surrounding him on all sides. Trying not to think about how close he had just come to losing control over his bodily form. He paid no heed the sound of Raze coughing and spluttering on the other side of car. No heed to the tension that gripped him to Change or the knowledge that what bruises he'd left on Raze were already healing.

He ignored everything.

_Ten years of life in this damned city…_

_The walls closing in. Trains surging across the underground. Bridges, towers and street vagrants trapped along the alleyways. The city lights reflected along the water. Unknowing mortals laughing in their windows, dining along the Alster. Greeting one another in passing. Always the damned trains_...

...but he caught himself, forcing his thoughts elsewhere. _The trains did not matter...the past did not matter. Only the war. Only the pack. Only the carrier_..._and yet, how strange it was that the dying Nightrunner would answer his questions two days before the carrier might be found. Strange she would have him go up North. Norway... Trondheim...the blood-soaked city. It had been years since he'd travelled up that far. Three decades at the least…_

_Three decades since a dim memory of a night long ago._

_He'd taken her there once before, _he mused, allowing the calm of great age to descend over his mood. With the memory of that night long past, the thought _again_ unwittingly crept upon his conscience. The hair on his neck rising as he tensed, _cold_ _and_ _chary, _whenever nursing his grievances…

_Always that knowledge…_

_How strange it was that the Nightrunner ended up crushed and bleeding ten yards from where Raze and his damned scouting party crossed the line. A place where neither of them had any business. _He began to tap the window ledge again, the bitterness seeping into his conscience as he bit back the vicious lycan trapped within. The creature he held back by the skin of his teeth...the one who at times, longed to tear the throat from his second-in-command. _He knew Raze had never trusted the touched outcast who sought to run with the wolves._ _She who had been with them for a century after Tanis found her banished by the pier. The nameless one. The roguish seer who once ran Night below the streets of Buda…_

_The Nightrunner._

_His_…_Nightrunner_…

No, he had not taken the news well at all when the train mysteriously caught his blue-eyed mistress of visions in her path. When Raze brought him the news two years ago...how she lived, and yet...the burns. The madness. Watching coldly for two long years as she lay dying...slowly. _Slowly_. At times, thinking to murder her in sleep. Finish the job. Having to suffer the presence of this dog when he knew... _Bloods_, _he knew whose talons were stained red by this _"_mishap._" _I__t was his business to know. But alpha to the damned pack of twelve, his duties came first._ _His thoughts of guilt and murder…second._

_And yet, how does one punish those who murder unseen? Those who follow a cause, and yet see no difference between friend and foe... Only _"_bloods._" "_Wolfkillers._"_ Vampires...had he himself not taught his followers so? Had he not created this hell? Had he not..._

_...but no._

Like a mantra, familiar words draped themselves upon his conscience, allowing him to blanket the pain which lay beneath. _Only the war. Only the pack. Only the carrier…_

_The Nightrunner was not his war…the dark-haired mistress left to burn in the heat of day. His companion. His woman tied to tracks of iron by the very pack of wolves that so willfully served him..._

_She did not matter._

She _could_ _not_ matter in this war.

The rest of the journey passed in silence

* * *

_**Official Disclaimer:** Underworld and all its characters belong to Kevin Grevioux (a.k.a. Raze), Len Wiseman, and Danny McBride. However, the Nightrunner and several other characters in this particular story were entirely made up by me. Don't sue, etc._

* * *

_**Additional References:**_

_For all you geography majors,_

Trondheim is in Norway, and one of its original names was indeed _Kaupangen, _meaning "the marketplace." (Named in 997 A.D. by Olav Tryggvason.)


	2. Chapter 2: A State of Undress

**Chapter II : A State of Undress**

_The Hamburg Den.  
Time: 12:50 am_

The so-called Hamburg den of lycans was an old, run-down structure located on the east side of the river Alster. Once known to be a hotel of some stature, the three-story building had fallen into vast disrepair, losing both its reputation and clientele in the wake of the second World War. Acquired nearly four decades later by an unknown client of some wealth, it had been steadily converted into a discreet base of operations, made to blend with the surrounding neighbourhood, while maintaining an interior state of…_some_…comfort.

_In other words_, _although not in line with the languishing (and no doubt, musty) velvet of Ordoghaz, it was still a stone cold fact that even lycans could exhibit a certain _"_taste_"_ for refinement…_

_Or at least_..._one did._

Already shrugging his coat off as he entered the den, Lucian immediately headed for his personal quarters, being in no mood to check in on Singe _or_ the rest of the pack. Usually, he ran a tight ship and oversaw the evening rounds, but then tonight, what difference would it make? Nothing had changed. Singe would just shrug, shuffle some papers and mutter "Negative," while the rest of his pack wasted his time reporting on the word "stupid" and why they thought it was a good idea at the time to light so-and-so's tail on fire. Better to ready himself for the morning and make an early night of it.

Stalking through the front hallway, he noticed Raze was keeping a safe distance from his back, but unfortunately, following him…perhaps thinking to continue their conversation once they reached the upper floors. As they reached the lycan common-room, however, his second-in-command suddenly veered towards the entrance, attempting to close the door before Lucian could take note of what was going on inside…obviously realizing this was not the prime night for further aggravating the lycan master's mood. Unfortunately, the action, though brave, was also entirely useless considering the amount of noise coming from the interior. Quietly informing Raze to stand down, Lucian comfortably leaned against the doorway and decided to watch the show for several seconds before interfering with their sport...

Blood-spattered furniture turned on its side. The television stuck on one channel and silently blaring static signals. Lycans pushing and shoving one another as they fought over freedom, meat, bones and _boredom_…swallowing their growls suddenly as they realized the lycan master had stopped by their chaos with an extraordinarily tight smirk on his face. One particularly new soul was still trying to wrestle his way out of the mob, but suddenly noticing the abrupt silence, quickly shut up and tried to blend with the broken remote clutched in his palm. Occasionally, the youngling's eyes would dart hopefully up at Raze, but the second-in-command had moved to the other side of the door, folding his arms forbiddingly. Apparently, Raze couldn't bail them out this time…

Still the picture of good-will, Lucian suddenly waved an arm out invitingly. "Please…" he gestured. "…_continue."_

Taking another step forward, he stooped to pick up a broken leg from one of the many smashed chairs lying about the room. Examining it carefully, he began to advance upon the mob…the wood splintering as his grip tightened on the chair-leg…his nails growing to the harsh length of talons, yellow and twisting through transformation. The surrounding lycans began to draw back, sensing the storm and leaving the inexperienced youngling where he lay, his eyes staring fearfully, and yet entranced, as the hand of Lucian _changed_. The reduced sound of trees snapping in winter. The chair-leg collapsing into a dozen or so dusty chunks of wood, falling pitilessly to the concrete…blood dripping from where splinters had entered his palm.

Kneeling by the lone lycan and holding his talons out in sinister expectation, Lucian allowed the nails to shrink back suddenly, shifting his paw through subtle horror to the guise of a human hand once more…the youngling's eyes trapped by the ease with which this feared master could alter himself. _The tiny wounds healing in the blink of an eye as foreign shards of wood were shoved from his flesh out of sheer will. _It was a testament of Lucian's power that he could demonstrate such control over which portions of his body gave in to the moon's call. But still waiting, Lucian glanced meaningfully at the broken remote…the back of his hair starting to bristle. His teeth drawing back as a growl began to grow in his throat.

Gulping, the youngling quickly dropped the offending prize into Lucian's hand and scrambled back, retreating to where the rest of the pack stood. Tension blanketed over the room, the television still blaring _s__tatic_…

_Silent static…_

The growl died from whence it came. But still glaring bloody murder, the bristling alpha rose from his crouch and calmly removed one of the many guns littered upon his person. Semi-automatic, loaded, and generally kept with the safety off. _Lead cartridges_. Reserved for the sake of his human adversaries, and thus largely, unused in the battlefield of this war. Not even bothering to turn his head from the pack, he pointed the gun to his right and fired. Having lost all pretense of amusement, he tossed the remote on the ground, aware of every face as it flinched at the tiny buzz now echoing through the room. The one that signified the death of an entirely real flat-panel screen _formerly_ installed on the right-hand wall.

"Problem _solved_."

Turning on his heel, Lucian stalked from the common-room, managing to stow his gun away before he accidentally twisted it into scrap metal. As he passed Raze, he snarled, knowing full-well that words were not required to communicate his meaning.

_Usually, his second-in-command at least had the option of bothering him until they reached the staircase, but as of __now__, his debate privileges were stripped. His leader was a mite tired...a bit touchy...and quite obviously, ready to slaughter the next creature in his path. Hence, if there was or ever had been any question about him leaving for Trondheim, the incident standing sheepishly behind them had __just__ answered it._

_(P.S. _"_If anyone so much as blinks in my direction, there will be a lot more to deal with than just a dead plasma screen._"

Taking the hint, his second-in-command moved instead into the common room, determined to take his fury out on the pack now that he'd been chucked from Lucian's flank and could no longer discuss the Norway issue. Typically, most of the pack looked to him for sympathy, but within seconds, all that could be heard was the sound of Raze barking off the walls, accompanied by a score of whimpering lycans. No doubt, clean-up duty would go well into the morning hours…

Scowling, Lucian left the scene of the crime and searched out a winding staircase located just beyond the drawing room, carelessly dropping his wintry coat at the foot of it before stretching his wrist out and easily removing the colossal blade attached to his right forearm. Though it required some dexterity in its handling, the entire contraption came off in a matter of seconds…and sure of his movements, the alpha began to climb the staircase, allowing the weapon to hang loosely from his wrist and completely unconcerned as the sharp blade began to swing lightly in the wake of his steps.

_Comprising of several straps, two springs and a thumb-activated mechanical device, the piece was specially designed to unleash and retract a hidden weapon of slaughter. Though refashioned in the last decade, the blade was originally part of a 14th century long-sword broken on the stony banks of an abandoned fortress._

_His fortress._

Now over six centuries later, he still managed to retain this small portion of a once-prized weapon. A _memento_ of sorts from the night of his first "death." Still climbing, slowly but surely, he allowed his thoughts to drift back into the past…

_…o…o…o…_

_The year was 1396 A.D._

_Then as now, they had reached an impasse…_

The vampires were steadfast in their crusade, striking the lycan forces on moonless nights, tipping their arrows with poison, coating swords and armour with silver so as to wound even when defending. Viktor had begun to burn all that had been the pride of his lands, not even willing to allow forests and caves to shelter enemies that had supposedly robbed him of his daughter. The lycan defenses were barely holding. Strategy, daylight, and human warfare were the only things keeping them alive.

King Zsigmond's vast crusade against the Ottoman Turks had worked greatly to his advantage. Nobles had immediately flocked to the Hungarian leader's call, and with the will of the Pope stamped on their brows, a force of eight thousand marched off to Nicopolis to do battle against Sultan Bayezid I. Half a year was spent waiting quietly while the humans organized their army, both vampiric and lycan forces warily watching each other, yet making no move for the sake of the secrecy which protected them. Better to wait rather than risk the wrath of thousands of humans who believed themselves righteous enough to swamp the undead. Not even waiting for a white flag, Lucian had sent word to all lycan forces to fall back east, choosing to establish his numbers in the mountains. An outlying fortress made for an excellent headquarters, but there was no doubt in his mind that it would be the stage for the last brutal attack that was to come once the truce of Nicopolis ended. Then, as now, Lucian had chosen to gamble, foregoing the impasse of war in order to remain a single step in front of the vampires.

For a wonder, it was the traitor who approached him, rather than the other way around. Under the cover of darkness, a lowly scout from the vampire forces sought an audience with him under terms of truce. Power, he sought. Authority and control…as if the fates had simply gifted him with a vampire willing to betray and murder hundreds for the sake of a title…and yet it was so. When the final curtain fell over Nicopolis, Viktor launched half of his forces against Lucian's fortress…and among them…

…the cowardly betrayer, aptly named Kraven.

The army had marched for days…weeks…rapidly approaching from the west. The importance of their scouts rested on the ability to find day-shelter for hundreds of vampires marching through the night. Throughout, Kraven had been their guide, drawing them further and further into a web of stone that would bring about their demise. By the time the warriors realized the other scouts were dead and the fortress lay above a gorge rather than a plain, it was too late.

Hundreds of vampires trapped between walls of stone. Arrows sticking out of corpses, lycans feeding off the meat of soldiers. But the screams had never haunted him. The bargain was struck, and every soul murdered. Every witness accounted for. The easiest part had been slicing the skin off his branded arm, while his lycans set fire to the fortress. For how else were they to prove that Kraven had killed the lycan master? Though not their most honourable hour, as a parting gift, his pack had also beaten the vampire within an inch of his life…a token of remembrance to watch his tongue in future. Kraven had never quite forgiven him.

_And the final stroke of genius?_

_Since that fateful night, the vampires had believed him dead and his lycan forces scattered to the winds. Only Kraven knew the truth of the matter, and for six long centuries, Lucian had watched from the shadows as his accomplice grew in power, blessed by the fruit of "killing" this first alpha of wolves…_

_This most _feared_ and _ruthless_ alpha of wolves…_

He almost smiled_…_

_In truth, the vampires would soon learn the meaning of the word _"_ruthless._" _For the past six hundred years, he'd been grooming his lycans as killing machines. The moon no longer held its sway. His soldiers had learned to exercise iron control over their carnal instincts. The sun had been harnessed as a bullet. __Though their numbers had dwindled as humans became less and less receptive to the bite of werewolves, a__lways, he reminded himself…__this had never been a game of numbers. Soldiers were pawns, and the heir of Corvinus' blood was like a promoted Queen on the other side of the board. __The hybrid blood would become his…and __the vampires would be blind-sided. The power torn from their fingers through an elegant, and entirely bloody, coup. Assassinating their Council of Elders. Inducting Kraven as solitary ruler of the coven. The instigation of a peace-treaty that would end the six-hundred year war between werewolves and vampires._

_By rights, he ought to assassinate the lot of them…_

…_but it was only Viktor that he truly wanted dead._

_…o…o…o…_

He reached the top of the stairs, still holding his dangerous weapon and now striding purposefully towards the engraved set of double doors located at the far end of the hall. As usual, the entire hall was empty. Although not expressly written down, it was a hard and fast rule that anyone found lurking on the third floor without good reason could…and _would_ find themselves plummeting from the more airy side of the balustrade. The first two floors of the den were prime territory for the rest of the pack, but the third floor belonged to the alpha. Kicking the doors open, he dropped the roguish weapon on the ground, starting to strip as he crossed the room.

_Four guns, six knives and a piece of twine left on the secretaire. Belt flung across the room. Boots kicked off by the fireplace. Burgundy shirt thrown across a favoured armchair…high-backed (nineteenth-century French and yet, quite comfortable depending on where he placed his head.) Black leather pants dropped on the carpet._

Reaching an open doorway, he entered the master bathroom, getting ready to turn the shower on…stalking easily across the warm tiles and halfway across the floor before he halted with one hand fixed upon the shower knob. His shadowed eyes starting to narrow even as he turned his head slowly to the left. An extraordinarily _dark_ expression blanketing his face, as he took in an illuminated sight that could only be described as _heavenly_ by most male lycans in his position. Hot mist gathering through the air. Scented oil. Floating candles. And what appeared to be a rather _naked_ woman seated on the edge of _his_ porcelain tub with her head sensuously propped on one shoulder…her eyes unabashedly watching him as she subtly trailed her fingers into the water.

"I was waiting for you…" she murmured.

_Mylla_. Red hair. Green eyes. A warrior in her own right and one of four women strong enough to hold rank in the lycan forces. Changed by Raze in the eighteenth century_…_possessing of great…_energy_ in her quest to find the lycan master's bed. In truth, lycan women were known for their confidence, but this was bordering on _whorish_...

"_You know, Mylla…_I haven't the _faintest_ recollection of ordering room-service," he remarked with a smile, turning the knob and ignoring the glaringly freezing temperature of water as he stepped beneath the fall, turning his back on the temptress. It had been several months since he'd slept with her…hardly worth recalling and yet, it bothered him…

"Perhaps I can remind you," she whispered from behind, suddenly closer and running a single enticing finger down his back. Reaching slowly around his front and drawing him round to face her. Firmly pressing her hand to his chest and pushing him towards the wall. Indeed, she was beautiful. Strong. Dominant. A _match_ for him…

…and yet, so consumed by her own lust, she couldn't even sense the slight change in his stance. The tautness of his form as his neck began to twitch along several veins. In fact, completely unaware of the storm building in her midst…_Mylla_…_strong, beautiful Mylla_…foolishly began to explore her conquest, thinking him tame. Sensuously running her lips along his torso and drawing her body closer to his flesh. _Knowing_ she was strong enough to meet his rank. Growling as she twined dripping hair between her fingers and grasped his neck, roughly _slamming_ him against the tiled wall. The kiss long…_deep_…and passionate as the dark night he _once_ surrendered to her wiles. _This tempting warrior of the lycan clan. Enticing_. _Fiery_. _Indeed…a woman worthy of his power. _But even as she drew her lips from his, he couldn't help but smile at the utter stupidity of this…

…_whore_.

Definitely _not _the night for courting…

Approximately twelve seconds later (the time it took to cross his bedroom, fling the doors open, and stride purposefully down the hall dragging a rather slippery object of some weight,) Lucian, drenched and naked as the day he was born, found himself blissfully alone once more after having dropped a woman from the third floor of his quarters. Stalking back towards his room, he listened vaguely to the thump as Mylla hit the ground. A brief scuttle and he knew she was rapidly making her way back to her room before the rest of the pack noticed. _Though nudity was common throughout the den, most women preferred to skip the swarm of cat-calls, suggestive wording, and occasional gropes that ended badly. Considering the strength of the warrior women on site, it was only the newest of recruits that were stupid enough to make an actual attempt at touching someone's derriere._

Bristling and now dying for the North, he slammed the doors behind him and returned to the bathroom, flipping the light switch on and turning the shower knob all the way right before stepping back in the shower. He almost yelped, _but knowing there was a cloud to every silver lining_ (deadly or not), he forced himself to stand there for several minutes. Allowing the cold to drift into his bones as he planned his next course of action. He'd pack for the trip and catch an early night. Perhaps speak to Singe before he left. Send word to Magnus of his imminent arrival.

_Trondheim…_

_By the wolves, he needed to cool down._

In the back of his mind, as he stood tense and shivering in the icy flow of water, he began to suffer a slight pang of guilt at having flung a _woman_ over a balustrade. And yet, knowing the voice of reprimand (though it had been almost a millennium since he had truly last heard it), he began to smile vaguely to himself, imagining the words this subtle angel of darkness might have uttered at a time like this. She would no doubt have frowned…perhaps even raised an eyebrow before coolly remarking on the extent of his rudeness…

His inability to hold temper…

But judging by the state of Mylla's undress, there was no doubt in his mind that his first beloved and only wife, Sonja, would also have suggested the use of a much higher staircase.

_Mylla._

The smile vanished as his thoughts turned back to the brazen succubus. She _knew_ the rules…knew he preferred to sleep alone these days. And though he was by no means celibate since the death of Sonja, he had never taken a mate. Not once in all these years. Not even the…

…_Nightrunner._

_Dark hair…the icy blue eyes of a rogue. Smelled of the sea. The nectar of aconitum. The voice of a cold merchant drifting below tracks of iron. Strong, willful and independent. Strange and entrancing. Raucous laughter as she realized he meant to kiss her of all things…_

…_but no. Not worth thinking about._

_The past doesn't matter…_

Realizing he could stand there all night, Lucian quickly soaped, rinsed, and turned the water off, grabbing a rather plush towel from the cabinet as he stepped from the shower. A quick dry and he headed for the sink, grabbing a toothbrush and violently cleansing his mouth of the taste of Mylla.

_Definitely time to be gone from this city._

_At least for a few days…_

Spitting toothpaste into the sink, he rinsed forcefully and dropped the toothbrush into its holder. Now searching the cabinet for mouthwash. _Liquid silver? Mercury? Nitric bloody acid!_ Anything to get rid of that…_taste_. But even as he scoured the shelves, he could still hear the second voice of rebuke that had also taken residence in the back of his mind. A much harsher one...colder than the subtle timbres of his dead wife. One he had scarcely heard but an hour ago…

_...and alive though she might still be, if the owner of this particular voice could speak as she once did, he had no doubts as to what she'd say. Or do. Something involving that knife she loved to carry. Or perhaps a gun. Or just poison…_

The growl slowly making its way through his throat turned into a full-fledged snarl. Slamming the cabinet shut, he stood, leaning over the sink and forcing himself to calm down. Forcing the memories to remain shut from his conscience…_Nightrunner_...

_Beloved creature whose memory stands in line with a dead wife…_

…_but two years have passed, _he thought violently, his fingers gripping the aged porcelain as he held back the lycan within. _She is dying. Two months left, and…he had to bloody move on_...

Abruptly catching sight of his own reflection as the hot mist began to clear from the glass, he suddenly frowned. _Damned, if he was starting to bristle again._ Lucian grabbed the pair of scissors on the side of the sink and began trimming his beard.

_Just a few hours…_

…_and then no Raze…no Hamburg den of lycans…_

…_and no bloody women._

...o...o...o...o...o...o...o...o...o

_**Historical Notation:** The Battle of Nicopolis is a historical event of 1396 A.D. Among a number of other leaders, King Zsigmond (or Sigismund of Hungary) did lead a crusade against Sultan Bayezid I and the Ottoman Turks. The Hungarian force was between six-thousand and eight thousand men, and the Pope mentioned was actually Pope Boniface IX (who apparently backed the crusade.) If you're curious about the outcome, both forces suffered heavy casualties, but Sultan Bayezid I was the eventual victor (though he was most displeased about the casualties and ended up slaughtering a ton of prisoners in retaliation for a number of Ottoman prisoners who were killed by the French.) Then again, Wikipedia could be lying..._


	3. Chapter 3: A Short Interlude

**Chapter III : A Short Interlude**

_The Nightrunner's Abode.  
Time: 2:04 am_

The smell of ancient herbs filtered through the dark-winter night as steam rose fitfully from a broken radiator. Moonlit pools of blood tracked along the dirt-encrusted tiles and a temperate candle fixed to the floor. A burnt creature lowered into her steel bateau, the head slumped uselessly against one side as the lycan nurse carefully sponged her emaciated arms. Strange contours of blood dribbling down her lips, now outlining the ruined flesh where her scars refused to heal. The reddish water clouding around her mangled skin…and Rena's mind _drifting_ as she tenderly washed her broken charge.

_Familiar irony that she, a retired junkie who'd not cared for a single soul since the death of her pups might start mourning for this…child…a flightless bird frightened by the sound of trains. Nightly cradling of a burnt seahawk's head, pressing blood against her lips. Wasted blood streaming slowly down her scarred cheeks. Indeed, the Nightrunner could be so forceful in her madness, and yet, so silent in her…_

…_slumber._

Suddenly hissing with realization, Rena drew the motionless bird forward…cradling the…_child's_…head in her palm as she searched for a pulse. Praying to Fate that death had not found the Nightrunner's soul. Ten seconds. _Searching_. _Listening_.

_Listening_…

…_for what seemed an_ _eternity_ _before grasping the sound of a heartbeat. The glimpse of movement. Laboured breath moving in and out,_ _in and out,_ _as the broken seer shifted in her slumber._

Softly releasing her own breath, she laid the sleeping vampire carefully back against the bateau…again streaming cold water across the burning scalp. Sponging the sweat away…and the heat. _All had abandoned this creature…but Rena stayed. So late in this war…Rena stayed for this child whose burns refused to heal. _

_For who else was there?_

_Even the alpha has abandoned his burnt one, _thought Rena, inwardly snarling through her mind's eye. The moonlight shining across her face…the tawny eyes of an owlish lycan masked behind a pale stain of anger. Always sensitive to her caretaker's moods, the burnt one suddenly began to whimper fretfully in her sleep, causing the brooding lycan to look down in her bitterness…tender as she swallowed her anger, still cradling the waking woman's neck. _Though the Nightrunner's voice could be cold as winter ice, she still had the temerity to sound like a wolf child mewling for milk after sunrise_.

"_Shhh…" _Rena murmured offhandedly, kneeling by the tub and now looking the mad seer in the eyes. Handing the washcloth over to the fretful and shaking fingers…the blue irises lost and vacant as the sea. "He's _gone_," Rena whispered, splashing the water a little with her fingers as she kept a watchful eye on her charge. A watchful eye on the vampire's strange choice of recreation. Already, she had moved on…scrunching and stretching the cloth out with her fingers…watching in utter fascination as it dripped. Still sounding so fretful with her neverending hunger, and yet so _appeased_ by this gift Rena had bestowed upon her.

_So appeased..._

Suddenly weary, the tall lycan of tawny eyes moved to the stool by the radiator…sitting down and letting her charge play feebly in the bateau…the screaming creature so calm now that her former lover had left the building. As usual, it had taken hours to quiet the poor thing. Hours to get her to sleep. Hours to clean up this mess. Even after Lucian had stalked from the room, the child had begun throwing up gore again. Always hungry…and yet, always playing in a damned pool of regurgitated blood.

_Damn him for using her gift. Leaving the poor Burnt One to rot in this hell…but still forcing the blood down her throat. Forcing the words from her lips when she can't even stomach her own blood, let alone, his. Harsh as Rena was, it pained her to see this abuse…but who was she to speak? She never stood up to him. Never stopped him in his path._

…_and for what?_

Broken visions. The words of a crazed vampire. Caught in her madness as she lay dying, unable to keep her blood down. Unable to stomach the lycan venom she once poisoned herself for the sake of inner sight. Her visionary charge screaming unholy dread to the nighttime sky. Lost on her tracks of iron. At which point…Lucian, so-called leader of twelve packs and alpha to the horde, would habitually ignore his gifted…_mate_…and call for Rena…

"_Rena…she's convulsing. Do something medical. __Goodnight._"

"_Rena_... _your aid is much appreciated. Give my regards to your pater. Goodnight._"

"_Rena_..._the next time you want to dope up, stick to your own damned painkillers. And by the by, give my regards to your drug trafficker. Goodnight._"

He might be alpha, but at times, Rena just longed to _smack_ him one over the head. Beat him senseless and give him a night spent in the burnt one's place…just so he could see what kind of hell he'd left her in. And though Lucian may never have said it...Rena knew what her charge represented. Everyone knew at the time. The Nightrunner was Lucian's mate in all but name. And he'd abandoned her.

"Glorified mistress, _my ass_," Rena muttered to the steaming air, knowing her charge heard not a single word. "_…_and no time for _bastards _either_." _Again hearing the Nightrunner whimper as she played, the lycan nurse wearily got to her feet. While the girl was calm, she might as well feed her what little blood she could. The child would no doubt spit it back up as soon as it was down…_but at the very least_, _she could try._

_Better than watching her starve_...

And with that, knowing there was nothing she could do if death came knocking at the Nightrunner's door, Rena left the room. She would return in a few minutes with blood…warm…nourishing. _Perhaps even a spoon…_

_But immediately, as the door closed, the Nightrunner began to whisper again. Blue-eyed, violent and deadly, her voice harsh as winter as she forced herself to stand…now stepping coldly from the warm waters. Swaying unsteadily through hazy air and crouching down to the dirt-encrusted floor. Her scarred fingers shivering as she spelled a short name along the steamed metal siding of the bateau_...

_ÁRIS._

"_Fluorescent lights flickering on, off, on, off. Blood stains_," she whispered hoarsely through the dry lips…weak and clawing at the floor with her one good arm. The violent creature twisted and mad as she stared intensely at the ominous name. Her head twitching as she passed her vision through the dark-winter night. "_Tracks on the ground. Empty birdcage. Straight-back chair by the window ledge. Blood on the marketplace floor…the bloodstained…city. The blood-stained north. Wake, for the wolves are coming…run to the marketplace floor. Line of ants by the hallway. The door stands open. Outside the door stands a man. Between his fingers lies a…g-gun. The trigger goes off. He hits the mirror. Shards of a broken mirror. Wake, for his name is Lucian. Run, for your name is…_"

The door suddenly opened and shrieking, the Nightrunner collapsed, shivering against the tub with the one arm clasped against her ruined shoulder…her palm having wiped _clean_ the name written along the metal siding. Her mind still trained on the smudge. Her breath shallow and hoarse.

"_Áris_," she whispered softly at Rena…rocking against the tub as the lycan ran forward to calm her down. Even as the lycan nurse cradled the dark seer in her arms, she continued to whisper. The name growing stronger…_louder_…until the Nightrunner screamed through the night. Over and over, the mantra which wrapped so simply round her warped intellect. Wrapped in her fury and yet, snickering with the answer as she spoke it. Laughing as she hissed the name of the candidate whose veins lay trapped in the blood-soaked city to the North.

_

* * *

__**A/N:** Hmm. We'll see where this goes. (Yes, I'm making most of this up as I go along...there's a general plot, but portions of it are up in the air.) The main purpose of this particular interlude was simply to introduce a bit more of the Nightrunner's current situation, throw in a new character...and, of course, add a bit more info about the candidate. (Hint, hint. When do vampires write names on steamed surfaces? We'll find out in two chapters or so.) __Speaking of which_..._next installment coming quite soon since I accidentally wrote it before Chapter III._

_As a final note_..._all readers, please feel free to **read and review**._

_**Mimyr:** A big thank you for last chapter's review! It was much appreciated. (Quite thorough, definitely constructive, and an overall pleasure to read.) Hopefully, I can keep up the mysterious undercurrent and dark chills. (If not...at least the first two chapters went well. As you probably noticed, that was my little disclaimer in case my writing style turns to complete crap.)_


	4. Chapter 4: Travel Arrangements

**Chapter IV : Travel Arrangements**

_The Hamburg Den.  
Time: 4:00 am_

_Beep…beep…beep…beep…_

Flipping over in the darkness and hauling his drowsy body to the edge of a king-sized mattress, Lucian, keeper of the lycan hoard and alpha of twelve packs, began his pitch-black morning by peering suspiciously at a particularly _dangerous_-_looking_ spread of carpet. Disheveled hair hanging past his forehead. The shadows melting hazily into one another as he squinted, still half-asleep and not entirely sure where the sound was coming from. Instinctively, he began to blink as his retinas adjusted…the nightvision kicking in and a belligerent growl emanating from his throat. His fur rising. The eyes narrowed with the silvery glaze of lycan temper. Twitching as he scoped out the room, befuddled by this unrelenting noise, but still _knowing_ the sound…vaguely. _Eyes hunting the shadows…tracking the room for motion…and sighting…_

…_an alarm clock reading._

_4:02 am._

Immediately, his fur dropped. The confusion and sleep bitten in half as he realized the mechanical form of his enemy. Turning onto his back again, the lycan master proceeded to entangle himself further through the satin sheets…an enormous pillow now clutched over his head. Curling as he stretched fingers and toes…allowing a slight yawn to escape even as he flinched wakefully at the echo still resonating through his goose down. _A moment passed breathing in and out. In and out. Taking in the cozy, warm air as he mentally prepared himself…_

_Everything packed. Short notice booking for a flight to Trondheim, but Nadia had sorted it out. The plane left Hamburg at 6:55. Arrived in Copenhagen around 7:45. He'd spend a brief layover twiddling his thumbs in a first-class lounge before embarking on a two-hour flight to Værnes airport, located about twenty-one miles east of the actual city. The only drawback…_

…_airplane food._

Grimacing, Lucian finally removed his face from the pillow and sat up, shoving his sheets to the foot of the bed with a discontented sigh. Noting the absence of his duvet. A glance to the right found it scrunched up on the floor along with three _extra_ pillows he'd cast from his bedside while sleeping. _Eleven centuries and deep down inside, he still longed for a pallet made of straw._ Yawning loudly, he cast a sullen glare at the abusive alarm clock located _just _out of reach and _still_ squeaking its appalling _homage_ _to_ _sunrise_.

_Although he knew it had purpose, it had become a daily ritual…this decision to destroy or not destroy the damned mechanism of hell trained to wake him at odd hours of the morning._ _Eventually…after several confrontations between his claws and the sleep button, he'd taken to placing the clock several feet away from his bed just to give it a fighting chance._

_And a good thing too…_

Rising from the bed and noticing, at the very least, he'd kept his pajama bottoms on, Lucian sleepily stalked to the alarm clock, turning it off before entering his master bathroom. Cringing at the icy tiles and splashing cold water on his face. The room still smelled of perfume…and scrunching his nose slightly at Mylla's lingering scent, he moved back into the bedroom, immediately heading for the miniature fridge. _Located near the balcony window, it contained the regular "lycan master" fare. Enzymes, blood-alcohol, painkillers…a small stash of vitamins. Four bags of blood. A_ _cut of venison_. After heating the first blood bag in a microwave (streamlined and subtly camouflaged with cloth), he swiftly deposited the warm contents into a glass and downed it. Licked the red off his fingers. Watching the empty street outside through the thick drapes as he moved onto the second bag…

_…and the third._

_Although ravenous from skipping dinner last night, he had no intention of gorging himself sick on his usual venison repast. Instead…a light breakfast before traveling_. _No meat._

Soon running a bone-handled comb through his dark locks, the lycan master next proceeded to the armoire, tying his hair back with a black leather cord. Dressing easily in the darkness, having picked out his clothes the night before…

_Aware of his guise in travel, he had strategically abstained from wearing his treasured leather pants (though they were the anchor of his rather consistent wardrobe.) Instead, he now adorned himself in the comfortable attire of a rather striking businessman._ _Dark silken shirt, black in the face of night, but in truth, possessing a tinge of red to it. _

_The elegant jetsetter meets the wolf_, he thought with a sly grin, buttoning the soothing fabric over his undershirt, while checking the rest of his items off the armoire as he donned them. Black suit. Cuff links. Rolex. Wire-rimmed aviators (_bloody expensive_…no less.) Briefcase.

He _skipped_ the tie.

As he was considering the overcoat (entering his wardrobe, there was a _long_ line of options available for braving the elements,) the phone suddenly rang and, momentarily stepping out of the closet, he answered it. _Nadia. _Frowning and already heading back to his former activities, he listened carefully to the update on his travel arrangements…all-the-while running his fingers meticulously through fabric. Eventually happening upon a winter-coat to his liking. Dark suede. Thick material. Cashmere scarf to match. Black gloves of hand-stitched leather. After several seconds of listening to the lycan travel mistress, Lucian nodded carelessly and hearing all he needed to know, responded with a short "_Auf Wiederhören_" before hanging up.

_The latest news. Magnus was informed of his arrival through the Line. The head of the Northern packs would be waiting for him in Trondheim. The reason for the alpha's visit…inspection…though his old friend of the North no doubt suspected there was more to it than just lycan protocol._

Almost fully dressed, Lucian now chose a pair of dark boots from his wardrobe…suitable for winter, yet still appropriate to his _apparent _style of business. He left the wardrobe, turning towards the full-length mirror standing to his left.

A quick check of his teeth…_and voilà_…

…a banker.

_Suave, efficient…and blending with the scores of businessmen now traveling on a regular basis throughout Europe. Although the vampires, asleep during the daylight hours, employed spies along most major air-routes… the concept of "wolf in suit" just didn't sit well with their outmoded definition of "lycan." Dressed as he was, he'd more than likely just slip past about twenty-THOUSAND mortals trained to watch for "large aggressive caricatures dressed in hoodies, gruffness and sleaze. Anyone smelling strangely or licking their chops by accident. a.k.a. Watch for fur."_

Pocketing his _spare_ cellphone, he grabbed the carry-on bag from his armoire and left, knowing his limousine waited about two miles down the road. It was 4:45 am. The sun close to rising in two hours. He'd be picked up by the bridge.

* * *

_**A/N:** Chapter four and five were originally one piece, but I figured we'd separate it between Germany and Norway. As such, we now have a chapter almost solely devoted to observing Lucian's wake-up schedule when he's about to travel. I also couldn't resist putting him in a suit. With wire-rimmed aviators. No tie. Cuff links. Undershirt. Come on, people...that's just ooozing style._

_(Speaking of style, I'd also like to point out that scene towards the end of the movie _"_Underworld_"_ where Kraven drops by uninvited to Lucian's den. Recall...this is the part where they're standing in the main lycan common room and Viktor's on his way into the sewers. Notice the lonnng line of fur-lined coats available on that rack behind Kraven. That's right. Lucian had almost fifty coats hanging there. I realize I'm exaggerating the number and most were probably for the lycan pack, but...come on, the gloves? A limousine? The guy's entirely high-maintenence. Except for the werewolf bit...)_

_Anyway, the main point is...please do **read and review** at some point. Even if it's to say "Lucian in a suit? I don't get it." And if you really don't get it, that's alright too...because next chapter he's changing into a black grungy longsleeve with a hoodie._

_It'll be very exciting. Stay tuned..._

* * *

Reference notations: 

**Auf Wiederhören:** This is the basic way to say _bye_ on the phone when speaking German. Literally translates to "_hear you again._" Essentially means "_until I hear from you again._"


	5. Chapter 5: The Meeting of an Old Friend

**Chapter V: The Meeting of an Old Friend**

_Nord-Trøndelag, Norway  
(21 miles east of Trondheim)  
Time: 10:30 am_

Arriving at Værnes airport, Lucian was immediately picked up in a sleek BMW…the door opened by a polished concierge and Magnus waiting in the back. The key was business, not a single word passing between them for about an hour. As the journey progressed, the façade of their clothing grew increasingly dilapidated. Almost _grungy_. Switching cars before they reached the northern wild, their ride growing bumpier. The driver left behind and the two men now clad in low-key, unassuming clothing suited to the surrounding winter terrain…and of course, their newest vehicle. An old range-rover…rusty in some places and probably on its last legs. Snow all around, it'd be a miracle if they made it to the den without having to get out and push at some point. At least the car radio worked, the head of Magnus bobbing in time to the sound of Bono pelting out "Elevation." _U2_. A new album apparently…though Lucian himself hadn't been following the charts.

They turned down an icy old road, and abruptly, Magnus lowered the music. _It would be the first time they would speak since Lucian's arrival, and Magnus was in the driver's seat now…Lucian on his right. English would have to serve as a meeting point as Magnus' German was appalling, while Lucian, strangely enough, had never quite wrapped his tongue around Norwegian._

"_Lucian_," grunted the pack-leader of the Northern territories, bowing his head in deference. He was a brawny man, short spiky hair dusted the colour of wheat and the slight scuff of a beard darkening his jaw. His face could have been chiseled out of stone, his voice boisterous…_deep_…and perpetually filled with unruliness. Five centuries old, he acted as a sharp-shooter these days...but he knew well enough how to spear a man through the heart before hacking his head off with an axe.

"_Magnus_," replied Lucian with a curt nod. His hair hung loosely and the hood of a dark wintry coat swathed his face in shadow, though the day itself was still light. He'd swapped his lavish threads for the fur-lined down of winter. Grungy black long-sleeve underneath, topped with a v-neck sweater. _Much good it would do him._ Magnus always had a habit of picking at his appearance with a fine tooth comb before pronouncing the entire thing as deficient for the new century.

"You look exhausted." Magnus' hand reached out to wipe steam gathering on the cold windshield. "You know…really _bad_," he emphasized a second time.

"I see your powers of discernment still haven't changed…" muttered Lucian dryly, his fingers reaching up to adjust the heating vents. Even on full blast, the car interior was a mite chilly. _Chilly and __uncomfortable_. Unable to sleep on the plane, he'd almost considered grabbing one of the plaid blankets from the back.

"Designer suit. Aviators. Versace. You almost dress _well,_" Magnus observed, squinting at the discarded threads on the back seat.

_Any minute, _Lucian thought skeptically, nestling himself further into his coat and awaiting the next insult. _The eyes...the ears...the hair...the skin. _Already the man was starting to look puzzled, twisting to try and get a better view into the dark hood. Frowning as if the alpha had committed a grave insult against the modern age.

"Why so much..._hair_?"

"I was feeling royalist," Lucian said wearily, closing his eyes and allowing his head to lean a bit more against the window. It was going to be a _very_ long drive. He'd gotten off easy with the suit, but Magnus hadn't changed a whit in five centuries._ Biting and impertinent. To think he'd renounced the blanket out of politeness._

"A shorter cut?"

"Anything else, my liege?"

"Just saying. New styles...move with the times."

Resisting the urge to rip the man's shoulder blades from his back, Lucian yawned, demonstrating his desire _not_ to continue the conversation, and shifted himself further against the window. Unsuccessfully trying to block out Magnus' voice. _All he could feel was dull irritation. Another cage. Caged in Hamburg. Caged in the North with a madman who enjoyed listening to…_

Without warning, the air began to turn on itself. He could smell a change. His weariness falling away like old fur.

_Something was wrong…something off._

"So how's your wife," Lucian murmured quietly against the window, changing the subject and attempting small-talk as he considered the scent he was catching._ He'd never actually met Vienne nor cared to, but rumour had it, she was a fine woman. Magnus' second wife after the death of Leda._

"_Fine_," Magnus shrugged, checking his rear-view mirror. Adjusting it slightly as he drove.

"Children?" _Part of his strength as alpha came from his ability to sense the changing tides. Whatever he was smelling, it was guarded. The kind of whiff you got just before someone knifed you in the back._

"Walking."

"Good to hear it." _He tensed._

"Glad to tell it," Magnus grunted, the teeth all out as he suddenly swerved the car to the right, coming to an abrupt stop by the side of the road. Snow all around and the cover of trees. His smile had dropped, eyes squinting strangely as he turned the engine off. From the corner of his hood, Lucian could see the man pocketing the keys and now studying him. He could smell the same scent of wariness. The scent of distrust. Calculating the odds swiftly, he prepared to gut Magnus from the side, keeping his movements hidden...

_He'd been expecting assassination for the past six hundred years, though he wouldn't have thought it of Magnus. Perhaps thirty years was too long a time to be living up north. Easy for a lycan to grow too comfortable with the idea of a dead leader. Or go rabid. Both called for a swift gutting, though it all depended on the next words to come out of Magnus' mouth._

"What exactly are you doing here, Lucian?" The words were spoken hard and flat like the surrounding bleakness, a block of ice for all the warmth in them.

"Inspection," Lucian replied calmly, wide awake and not even bothering to turn his face from the window. "…or didn't you read the missive?"

_Not assassination then._

_If Raze had betrayed his confidence, then Magnus was already aware of the Nightrunner's involvement. He may have informed the Twelve, which meant this excursion would be coming to a rapid close. Though it galled him, he couldn't risk another cut of power._

"You're tense," Magnus said quietly. "...and you're planning something. I can only assume the Twelve would vote against it if they knew."

_The Twelve._

_Only God knew how_ _that __happened._

_Originally it had been a strategem to force any contenders for his position into the open while taking a firmer grip on his empire. Since the first world war, a____nything of dire consequence, inspection aside, was to be taken up before a council of Twelve prior to final decision. Every member__ chosen from lycans who might have been alpha in former times. Each given their respective packs and spread across Europe, the Americas, and parts of Asia..._

_...but then delegation had turned into communal rule. __Like vampires, werewolves had chosen to think with their heads before their claws. Active politics had ground to a halt, while the alpha, first among wolves, was forced to seek council before making decisions._

_He ruled them all...but at times such as these, they ruled him._

Keeping his features bland and disinterested, Lucian shrugged... "Take it as you will, Magnus. There is nothing surreptitious in my presence here. I tire of Hamburg and you face inspection, straight-forward and simple. The sooner you grow comfortable with that, the sooner we can be on our way." 

"I _know_ you, Lucian...you think quick and move fast, consequence be damned. There's more to it."

"How so, old friend?" His hood had fallen back, his mind moving swifter than the scowl darkening his face, the sarcasm dripping from his tongue. "Consequence be damned, I leave in two days. Do enlighten me as to the _form_ my reckless scheming might take in that time? A meeting with a pack-leader? Perchance even a den inspection?" _Magnus had to be aware he was walking on thin ice calling him out on a subject that held grounds for confrontation...but if he played his cards right, there'd be an opening._

"I know you don't travel alone, Lucian. Not anymore…not since the second world war and not for an inspection." The man's tone was surprisingly sharp considering who he was speaking to. "Any plan of consequence should have been brought before the Twelve. We are here to advise you. We speak for the sake of…" 

"You speak for the sake of my _will_. Or have you forgotten your place in the hierarchy of _my_ pack, Magnus?"

"I have _not_…"

"Then start the car."

"When you tell me why you're here…"

"I do not answer to _you,_" he hissed, shoving the words in Magnus' face, throwing his door open and striding out into the snow. _Enough with confinement. __Let us see this to a head..._

_For almost a century now, Magnus had been pack-leader in the North, but did he follow the alpha or his place among the Twelve? Could he be trusted? Enforced democracy had changed so much in recent times...but the man had to choose. Darkness fell in two hours and the plan still needed maps, specifications, weaponry..._

"_Lucian_," Magnus yelled after him. The tension in the car erupting into their surroundings, all pretence at diplomacy lost as the two lycans squared off, glaring at one another from either side of the range-rover. "We are not finished here…"

"Are we not," Lucian growled in challenge, his blood starting to broil as the silver of wolves altered his sight. The colours dimming before him as his aggression rose to a crest. "You worry on the Twelve when our forces would have been slaughtered centuries ago without my leadership. When did it come to this, Magnus, that even _you_ would begin to question my motives?"

"There is _no one_ questioning your motives, Lucian. No one questioning your right to lead us." Magnus was on the verge of temper, the harsh scent of rage starting to pinnacle against his own. The man had enough sense to keep his hands down, claws absent from each finger, but his words were gritted as if it took every ounce of his strength not to lash out. "Every soldier follows their pack-leader, and every leader follows you. But it is _you_ who are bound to the will of the pack as much as you lead it. As long as the truce remains, we fight from the shadows and we _live_."

"_We_ _do not_ _live_," Lucian hissed across the clearing, gathering himself before a Change could occur. Anger, he felt. Tremendous anger at the truth in Magnus' words. Anger at the truth in his own. "We _scavenge_ and we _scrounge_. Our numbers dwindle with each passing year as more and more deathdealers ignore Kraven's orders. Barely a tenth of humans survive the first moon after a bite. Barely a tenth of them are strong enough to withstand a single bullet. Do not tell _me_ this is living, Magnus…"

Close to tearing through metal from the sound of things, the man abruptly growled, sharply rapping the side of the range-rover with his fist. "I do not fight this war so I might _live, _Lucian. _Keep to the shadows and survive the war...or have you forgotten what it is to be lycan?_"

_Survive, _Lucian pondered dangerously, fingers roughly transforming into claws, the talons sharp through the black fur. It had been decades since anyone had dared stand up to him. Decades since the twelve pack-leaders had been chosen to act as his counsel, stripping him of his social freedom. Alphas were never meant to defer. Never meant to seek counsel...

He blinked suddenly.

_For a moment, staring at Magnus, it was as if he were challenging Askell, the old lycan master, rather than the man's son. __He could see his mentor before him, the mantra that had kept him alive when dark nights threatened to sweep him from the cause. Askell had dragged him back from the brink. Shoving him against the wall and forcing him to repeat the words. _

_Keep to the shadows, he had told him. Survive the war._

_But Askell had died with a silver bolt through his neck._

Suddenly weary of old memories, Lucian flexed his claws away and shoved his hands into his pockets, sniffing the air bitterly. Forcing himself to feel the cold working through his limbs, knee-deep in the snow. Forcing himself to remain in the present. Finally, Magnus was beginning to smell uncertain, as if he believed the alpha he'd spent his childhood following would actually rip his throat up. It was a necessary shame to use Magnus in this way. Confronting him only a few hours after their first meeting in years. He bided his time, waiting until the scent was just right, able to gauge Magnus' temper even after all these years.

_Once long ago, they had been like brothers. They'd trusted in one another. Kept each other's backs. During his darker years, Magnus was probably the one lycan besides Askell that he could trust to keep him sane...and then he returned one night to find father and son locked in a brawl. Scratching each others' faces and growling as if they would kill each other in the next swipe. He had parted them, demanding to know what had occured...but neither of them ever told him what happened. Just after the seventeenth century, Magnus left to start up the northern den, while Askell his father cursed him from behind. When he died, Askell passed his memories and skills to Lucian rather than his own son._

_Skills that Lucian now used upon Magnus..._

_The art of forcing emotions. Bluffing a scent and goading another to fight in the wrong situation. Forcing tension into the air when there was none. Causing the reek of desperation so the only option left was submission. __The changeability of character used to curb others to his will._

Softly, he began to laugh. _Short_ laughter...a pale shadow compared to the creature he'd once been. Even with the bluff, this still might have ended in a clash, but a millennium had taught him to swallow his anger. _Askell had taught him_.

_Time to test the waters_...

"What if I told you there was a quicker way to leave the shadows..." Lucian murmured quietly, studying Magnus as he would a field-mouse. The man's aggression was dissolving rapidly already, the colour of trees starting to emerge in the corner of his eye-sight.

"There is no…"

"I tell you there is a way here and _now,_ old friend." He paused momentarily. "Would you follow me?"

Magnus lowered his palms to the rusty metal of the range-rover. He spat to the side. "You have no eye for the noose," he said brutally, glaring at Lucian and shaking his head in disgust.

_The noose..._

Lucian's eyes narrowed at the slight. _Reckless he might be, but the odds were always in his favour. Magnus was just being stubborn...but there would be no quarter in this matter. The man was coming with him and if he must, he would force his beliefs upon his subordinate. His old friend._

"You _will_ follow me, Magnus," he hissed, the words gritting against his teeth, burying Magnus' futile attempt to defy him. Without blinking, he continued to stare the other lycan down, imposing his right as alpha. _Few lycans could bear it for very long, the shadowy face hooded in darkness. The man would be forced to follow him as his father once did._

Abruptly, Lucian fought the urge to blink. He was seeing things.

_Like a mirror..._

_The chill of haunted nights. Perpetually restless hands and fingers. Cracks trailing along a façade worn so thin after centuries of use. The retinue of masks he put before his followers. Strength, resolution, and power. Desperation and anger. __He barely knew which was real anymore, and so he pressed all to his advantage.__ Perhaps he was the one going mad..._

_Almost, he could see the pale reflection of himself in the eyes before him…_

_If he could only look further into the depths..._

The other man suddenly grunted heavily, breaking his line of sight. "It's getting cold…" the man muttered, opening his car door and taking a seat, turning the engine on for the sake of warmth. Not surrendering an inch, Lucian entered as well, slamming the door behind him and leaning his back comfortably against the window. Staring Magnus in the eyes and waiting for him to give his answer.

Magnus met the unflinching gaze. "I will need details," he said, crossing his arms passively before him.

"Corvinus' blood heir."

"_Here_?" Magnus scoffed loudly in disbelief. "Lucian, the line has died here. We've combed the place…there hasn't been a new strain for decades."

"I have a source that thinks differently…"

"A _source?_"

"You heard the first time," Lucian retorted shortly…his patience on edge, his need to act starting to swallow the savoir-faire of his manner. He needed to be austere and cold…the character of one who commanded legions. Yet one who was dictated by legions. _But he could not gamble on what Magnus would say of the Nightrunner. After Liam's death, the twelve had become…edgy…at best when the topic of visions came up._

"I need a name. Leave me in the dark again, and we may as well stop right here, have an inspection, and send you back where you came from…" A touch of playful scorn had entered Magnus' voice. In the face of a tyrant, the man had the temerity to smile broadly while smelling obstinate.

Aware he had lost ground, Lucian forced himself to smile...something of a tight smirk trying not to murder the person it was directed at. "I could also relieve you of your duties and place your wife in charge..." The thought had a ring to it. "...but seeing as you're stubborn as a headless cock, we may as well get this over with." He barely left room for breath. "Last night, the Nightrunner..."

At the woman's name, Magnus' eyes widened, shock and outrage.

Before he could bolt, Lucian gripped the situation in his teeth. "Hold before you speak," he said calmly as if he had not just mentioned a woman deemed packless for her part in Liam's death. At the time, he'd had to stop them from tearing her already broken body into shreds, having the execution waived at the last minute for the mere fact that she'd be dead in a year already. "I say again _she, _and you know of whom I speak, was gifted with a vision last night, Magnus. The blood was mine. She drank it and I tell you, she saw the mortal carrier of Corvinus' blood standing in this very territory in a single day's passing."

"Lucian, the woman is..."

"_Think_, Magnus. Had she been lying, Liam would be in Dublin, aiding the Council and his father's pack right now. That he did not return only shows the truth in her words..."

"Or the vengeance in them. Liam's father was a chief opponent to her presence."

"But _not_ an active perpetrator," Lucian said assuredly, as if the proof lay before his eyes. "Do not discount words merely because we misunderstand them, old friend. Blood-sight has never been disproven, not in the first days of Viktor. Not even after it was banned."

"You speak as if you..."

"Twice this seer has spoken since the accident, both times in the grip of blood-sight." _This seer. _As if she hadn't been his mistress once. "Our pack would have her executed as murderer before Liam's body has even been found. Where is the justice in that? If the lycan still lives, would you rather not know for certain that it was Corvinus' blood that lay at the end of his search?"

"You wager this for Liam or the blood-carrier?"

"Both."

Shaking his head slightly, Magnus closed his eyes and quietly asked, "Where then?"

For a moment, Lucian had to pause, suddenly lost at the question and astonished that he'd managed to rest his case. Like the demon of Hunger eating holes in his own argument, he'd been talking out of his ass for the past ten minutes. The gamble was risky, based on bias, and likely to get them both killed. Either Magnus was in his camp or the man wanted him to stop talking drivel.

"Blood on the marketplace floor," he murmured quietly, recovering quickly enough not to betray himself.

"Trondheim," Magnus grunted, crossing himself wearily.

Lucian nodded, his thumb once more stroking the cord around his neck. No words were needed to share his disquietude. Like an axe cleaving through skulls, it was already ingrained in lycan history. _The blood-soaked city…an early boundary of Trondheim. Home of the massacred dead. Avoided out of respect...and fear._

"Magnus," he pressed. "Yes or no?"

He saw the man hesitate, bathed in uncertainty. Distracted by a string at the end of his clothing. Tugging at it. Soon tying it into the rest of his sweater as he opened his mouth to speak, his body taut, probably aware of the eyes boring into the side of his head. The words blanketed under Magnus' breath...

"You still feed her lycan blood then?"

Frowning, Lucian blinked at the question. The silence continuing as he weighed it, aware that he was taking too long to speak truth. _But there would be no compassion._

"Yes," he said clearly, allowing the obvious to go without dredging it up for morality's sake. _The Nightrunner couldn't feed herself, let alone take lycan blood of her own accord. He forced her to drink, and slowly but surely, hastened her death in that way…slower than poison. Whether Magnus approved or not was of no consequence to him. During the trial, the pack-leader had been notably absent, and as a result, his representative Geir had voted for execution._

Moving on to more practical matters and ignoring the scent of regret on his breath, Lucian laid out the trail for Magnus… 

"As I listened, she spoke of fluorescent lights flickering. The presence of broken glass, old bottles, and a brown suitcase. A straight-back chair placed by a window ledge. Tracks on the ground. An empty birdcage. A line of ants by a doorway." He paused, considering whether or not to broach the final point. "She says there is to be a man holding a gun. I can only assume this is the candidate that we seek. The trigger goes off…_and__…and there__ it stands_. Probably somewhere near train tracks. A run-down neighbourhood by the sound of it, one with an apartment building perchance. Even if the man uses silver, we have enough years between us to withstand several bullets," Lucian muttered, restlessly played with the heater vents. He had neglected to mention the Nightrunner's final words…

_He hits you. His name is…you._

For some reason he couldn't stop moving his fingers. Tapping the air vent left and right. _Left and right._ The sound of the motor running…the emptiness pressing in from outside. Blue skies…and dark clouds gathering. _The unspoken thoughts hanging between them…the air vent being tapped left…and right. Left…and right. Violently._

"I'm sorry for what happened." Magnus grunted suddenly. Steady and unyielding…his voice becoming a discordant echo in the sudden silence.

Enveloped in the darkness of his shadowy hood, Lucian forced himself to meet Magnus' eyes, keeping his scent unconcerned and yet...unable to control his stance…so _rigid_…so cold and tense. Feeling the air of _attack_ come upon him. _Like the iceberg, the more tranquil an alpha was, the more careful you had to be when treading dark and dangerous waters. Or so the saying went. He himself had always kept his emotions in a firm grip, but lately, he was starting to slip. Lately, he was becoming more aware of the difficulty required for maintaining his control._

_The wounds were still there._

_Raw_.

Suddenly unable to look at his travel companion, Lucian turned fiercely to stare at the window…his gaze intent on the dead trees outside.

_R__aucous, blood-drinking fiend of a woman with a temper to match. Dark-haired merchant of the ocean rails_… _The woman was not dead yet, but she may as well be. And he with her._

"_Keep to the shadows_," he murmured coldly, forcing his eyes to remain on the snow…dead branches. Icicles. The cold north from which the Nightrunner had come.

"_Survive the war_," Magnus intoned from behind. For a moment, the silence stretching between them...and then finally, the words he had been waiting for. The gruff voice of Magnus confirming his place in the mission. "We'll set out before dawn. Should be enough to find a route by the tracks...maybe a name if we're lucky." With no reason to argue nor linger, the man started the engine again and pulled back onto the road, turning the music back up, the rest of his energy now occupied with moving to the rhythm of Queen.

Lucian nodded, no longer willing to speak. His mind grim and tinged on solitude. His eyes focused on the nature that surrounded them through the glass... _Sparse trees on either side of the road. Snow-covered trails and frozen icicles glinting with sunlight. Open skies above ranging borderless and free. The beautiful North. The blues tones as harsh as the eyes of his lost mistress of visions. _Immediately, his eyes sharpened on the sky. _The cruel beauty around him. The imperfections and gathering clouds._

_It was getting darker..._

He glanced at Magnus, further confirming his unease. The man had halted in his head movement, his attention focused instead on the sky, frowning as he turned the windshield wipers on. His hand reaching out now and again, wiping steam from the glass. _A storm was coming._

"_Faster," _Lucian murmured quietly, staring grimly at the forest that surrounded them on all sides. _It was another forty minutes to the Northern den, and Winter approached in all her fury. Though the storm would keep them safe from the prying eyes of vampires, it would do them no good if they were trapped too far from the den._

The other lycan nodded, stepping on the gas. Keeping the car steady and trained upon their destination. The sound of winter tires spraying snow beneath them as they raced forward.

* * *

_A/N: This entire chapter has just been reworked (22 Dec. 2007) Please feel free to __**read and review.**_


	6. Chapter 6: Warmth to the Den

**Chapter VI: Warmth to the Den**

_Høst Gård, Norway  
Time: 3:12 pm_

The storm hit before they reached the den. Darkness and snow on all sides. The road barely visible as the range rover came to a stubborn halt, the car lights on low beam and six feet away, a rusty old farm-gate blocking their passage. The metal barricade was bordered by immense rocks and barbed wire on either side. A rickety old sign on the right with the words "Høst Gård" painted in bright red, barely visible above the German translation. _Autumn Farm_. Clearly in his element, Magnus shrugged a wintry old coat on and shoved his door open, a sadistic grin on the face as flurries of white stormed the interior. It took a disgruntled glance from Lucian before the man finally shut the door, his pale shape now moving quickly through blasting winds, the vision of a Viking plowing through snow up to his knees. The indistinct form leaning into the metal and shoving the barrier. Forcing it open even with the friction of snow hindering its track.

Left on his own, Lucian ran his finger along the dashboard. Feeling the drill of old days in his bones.

_Perhaps he was growing soft...dependent. Too long since he'd been on his own, forced to battle for his food and place in the pack. Everyone assumed he was impenetrable...untouchable._

Decisively, he flipped his hood back and clambered into the driver's seat, looking around and squinting slightly. Gathering his bearings as he realized this was probably the first time in...four years...that he'd actually driven anything. Not a comforting thought in terms of pride, but at least he knew what was what. _Steering wheel. Clutch. Stick-shift. H-pattern._ Shifting gears and easing his foot off the clutch, he maneuvered the vehicle with ease and came to a smooth stop about three feet past the gate. _Like riding a bicycle,_ he decided with a small trace of estrangement, pushing the door open and shifting back to his seat, aware of the other lycan closing the gate and trudging back towards the car.

Bringing all of winter with him, Magnus took his seat again, shaking the snow from his coat and leaning closer to the windscreen, immediately starting to inch the car steadily up the long driveway, their destination barely in sight. Lucian shifted round, impatiently reaching back to grab his carry-on from the seat. If possible, the storm was coming down harder than before…but through the white, he could just spot it...the warm-lit windows of an old farmhouse.

_Autumn Farm._

_Timber and stacked logs fashioned in the old style with the added one-car garage. Spruce trees and a barn housing whatever lifestock the man kept. The land had once belonged to mortals, childless and unaware of Magnus' true nature, save that he worked hard and aged well. Upon their death, Magnus had stayed on as keeper, avoiding the surrounding communities and keeping to himself. Creating a warm life that would be vacated in a decade._

_All lycans switched lives, passports, and property after it became apparent they would never reach the look of senior citizens. Land was typically swapped between friends, and it was quite likely Magnus would relinquish his home after his pups were full-grown and ready to assume their duties. __For the time being however, Høst Gård acted as the lycan road-base for the North...a__ place to park the car, a cellar to hide ammunition in transit, and a hearth to raise children. __The true den actually lay underground, carved into the hills two miles away where about two dozen soldiers lay waiting for the winter's end. A harsh existence, hardly suitable for the young._

Parking the range rover in the small garage, the two lycans immediately exited the vehicle and headed for the house, Magnus nodding for him to go ahead as the burly lycan locked the garage. Hardly waiting for the nod, Lucian was already making double-time up the stairs, heading for the front door and dragging about two hundred pounds of snow with him as he climbed. He was halfway to grabbing the handle when the door suddenly opened from inside. Warmth, light, and the smell of mutton roasting over a fire. _Blissful. _

Unfortunately, he had other concerns.

A small woman stood at the door. Dark-skin. Short, curly hair with a touch of copper highlights. Cold-blooded eyes shining fearlessly as she eyed him, all-the-while maintaining her grip on the sawed-off shotgun now pointing directly at his chest. Narrowing her sights, she hissed something in what sounded like flawless Norwegian.

Lucian suddenly blanched. "_Come again?_" he replied in English, too stunned to throw himself into attack mode. Understanding dawning as he realized…this heavily-armed creature had to be…_Vienne?_

Unable to control his face, Lucian immediately felt his eyes widen, and in a horrific show of rudeness, he mistakenly looked down…and then _down_ _again_.

_Bloody hell, what a tiny woman..._

_She hardly came up to his shoulder. He'd been expecting a dowdy old dress of knitted wool…but even by his standards, she was dressed sharply, her short, and yet curvaceous, frame encased in a tightly fitted shirt with a high cuff. Black leather pants. Holsters along both legs. High-cheek bones…and a beauty in her own right._

He closed his mouth, but couldn't resist looking down again.

_How the hell did red-mongering Magnus score this angel of a…_

…_lycan now casually lining her shotgun up with his head._

Finally reaching the door, Magnus slapped Lucian on the back and said, "Lucian…Vienne. _Vienne_…_Lucian_." As if sharing a secret of tremendous import, he leaned over to the dark-haired alpha and grunted, "A bit of a fire-cracker. I'd translate, but words don't come across so well. She meant to say welcome."

The woman snorted, exclaimed a stinging blaspheme in French (which Lucian _did_ understand,) lowered the shot-gun and turned back into the house, slamming the door behind her. Leaving them out in the cold. The wind gusting around and wet snow falling down the back of their hoods.

Magnus smiled wearily in the darkness, his teeth showing in the reflected light of the glass windows. "Did I mention we were expecting?"

Lucian shook his head slowly, his eyes still a mite wide after this first introduction to Magnus' wife.

"Well…we are."

"I take it she…"

"…was pleased. At the time."

"Ah," he murmured in reply, unsure what else to say. In a way, he understood her anger. If memory served correctly, this child…if carried to term, would be their third. A risk and more than most could afford with the ever-present war. The only experience he'd had with lycan mothers had been…painful. The sight of vampires slashing torsos and the rage of watching his people exterminated. The ordering of mass burials and the stench of families burning in their own homes. Dens blocked up with fire and four-month-old lycans howling as their mothers tried to…

…_no. It is a joyful time…it is…worthy of celebration._

"My best wishes to you and yours," he whispered over the howling storm. "_Warmth to your den_." The last words were spoken in Latin…

"_And fire to your hearth_," replied Magnus, adopting the old tongue in turn. Acknowledging the past as they greeted the future with lycan words of _den and hearth. _

_Warmth to your den, and fire to your hearth…_

_A benediction of sorts for those caught between wolf and humankind, the statement originated in the 11th century and the age-old wisdom of wishing well upon those expecting young. This was probably the first time Lucian had spoke the words in over three centuries. An acknowledgment of the old ways which, themselves, were dying as lycans succumbed to the war and made way for the youth. Children of the modern age. Creatures born and changed with no thought for the aspiring culture which once thrived among their ancestors._

Nodding in appreciation, the brawling lycan, Magnus, pushed the door open and made way for Lucian to pass, the first alpha of wolves stepping over the threshold and feeling warmth blanket him. The ice still clinging to his hair as large, frozen clumps of snow fell to the reed-covered floor. They stood in a small hallway, a wooden alcove on the right holding a medley of jackets, hats, and scarves. Mittens left on the shelves and boots strewn on the floor. Following convention, the two lycans divested themselves of outer clothing, allowing the heat to soak through their bones. Shaking their hair out and scratching long-covered itches of skin. Taking their time as the sound of pots clanging against metal could be heard from the inner sanctum.

Finally, Magnus led the way, stepping resolutely towards the second door at the end of the hall. The gateway to the rest of his home and a massive piece of lycan-carved wood made of varnished red oak, the surface covered with the first tendrils of spring. But yet again, before the handle could be turned, the door opened swiftly from the inside. A moment of silence passed, and feeling impatient, Lucian turned slightly to spy over his comrade's shoulder, thinking the wife of Magnus to be now intent on shooting her husband. Only to catch sight of…

…a _child_.

She stood stock-still, about two and a half feet high. Caramel-skin. A shock of dark curls and ringlets. The light-green eyes of her father. For ten seconds, she stared intensely at the man in front of her, kneeling for a moment to poke at his feet. Thwack his knees. Gesturing, she indicated that Magnus was expected to kneel, and still waiting in the outer hall, Lucian watched with some amusement as the 6'4 giant kneeled before the tiny mistress.

"_Far?_" she whispered.

"_Ja_," he replied.

She nodded firmly at his statement, completely serious in her guard-duties for the home den. _Putting two-and-two together, Lucian silently figured Far must be Norwegian for "Father." Most languages were related in some way or other, and around these parts, whether it was Father, far, pater, or fader, it usually meant the same thing. Ja had to be a simple _y_es._ But now herself peering over and beyond her father's shoulder, the little maiden began to sternly scrutinize Lucian. Baring fangs the size of toothpicks and raising her blunt fingernails, she hissed, causing Lucian to step back with a hidden smirk.

_Apparently, the little sentry had deemed the alpha of twelve packs _'_unfit_'_ for entry into her den._

Laughing, Magnus immediately picked his daughter up, allowing the tiny lycan maiden's arms to grasp firmly about his neck as she continued hissing…and _hissing_…and abruptly, running out of breath, she closed her mouth. Again, Lucian had to fight to keep the smirk off his face, knowing it would only incense her further. _Lycan pups had strength…and it was true, the girl had opened the door by herself, but thanks to a hearty dose of youth, it would be another four years before her lungs had the capacity to growl. _Realizing her hiss would not take her far, however, the little mistress counted her battles and now _glared_…_still baring her teeth_ as Magnus pulled her from his shoulder and held her up. Turning back to Lucian, Magnus now grinned again, but instead of speaking, he brought the wolf-pup closer so she might get a better look at her adversary. Raising an eyebrow, Lucian swallowed his pride and allowed the girl child to grab a fistful of his hair. She held it up gingerly. Poked at his cheek. Thwacked his ear, causing a slight grunt as he flinched back a little. _For the love of moonlight, was this entirely necessary?_

Frowning, the little mistress gestured for the shoulder again, and once seated, whispered something fervently in her father's ear, keeping her voice low enough that Lucian could hear it about…a _mile _away. Unfortunately, the words were completely unintelligible since the girl seemed to be quite attached to her Norwegian tongue. Magnus turned back to his daughter and whispered something equally foreign the name _"Lucian" _popping up at least once. Leaning against the wall, the first alpha waited impatiently as they finished their _oh-so-serious _conversation. Crossing his arms and making a conscious effort to control his growing edginess. Finally, after what felt like an hour, the girl abruptly gasped, her eyes turning to Lucian with new interest. Her face lit up with a smile and patting her father's arm, she gestured to be let down to the ground. _Oh bloody hell, no, _he thought. _She's not going to…oh for the love of…_

…_hell._

The girl had latched onto his hand, and had begun chattering away in her Norwegian tongue as if he were kin. Pulling his arm down, hugging his _claws, _circling his form, sniffing and blathering on with obvious delight. Stopping in front of him, she raised her arms up and waited.

He _raised_ an eyebrow.

She waited.

He looked at Magnus for _help_.

Magnus shrugged.

_Oh, perfect, _he thought with a scowl. _So much for bloody friendship! _Realizing there was no way into this house without appeasing the…_women!..._of Magnus' world, Lucian finally made a point of gingerly hoisting the little maiden. Judging this position to be _highly_ uncomfortable, she immediately crawled (_more like clawed_) her way up to his neck, causing _extreme_ difficulties for maintaining dignity while this giggling…_urchin…_glued herself to the back of his hair. Suddenly noting that she was scrabbling (and pulling his hair with her), he forced himself to bend slightly forward so she wouldn't fall.

"What the _fu_-…" he caught himself before the next word could fall out…suddenly aware of his language in the face of this child-demon. He frowned and began again… "What on _earth_ did you tell her?"

"The truth," Magnus shrugged. "You're alpha, and her _nickname_ is General. You do the math. I'm teaching her the word '_suspicion'_ this month. No one allowed in the house without a thorough check-over…_after _Vienne's done the real check, of course." The man headed on inside, Lucian now tentatively walking forward, trying to ignore the ceaseless prattle going on beside his right ear. Did she _never_ shutup?

_Apparently not._

…but the exasperation melted away as he entered the main living-quarters of the house. Dark red walls. Rugs and warmth. Vienne was standing by an oak table covered with five plates, glasses and cutlery, cuts of mutton and heated blood sitting in the centre. Magnus was occupied with greeting his other daughter. An older girl of about twelve years. She was dressed all in black like her mother, the hair straightened and the brown eyes heavily lined with kohl. Caramel skin and the high-cheekbones of her mother, though she herself stood taller. Closer to Lucian's height. She appeared more reserved than the pup on his back, and could only blush when her father _loudly_ suggested she greet the "_twelve-pack" _alpha. Biting her lip, the poor girl's tanned cheeks suddenly turned bright red. An affronted glare at her father even as the man grinned and motioned her forward again. Perceptive as usual, Lucian made a point of ignoring the signs as he waited. _What was this? A childhood crush? Twelve_-_pack_, _indeed_...

Pushing her father back, the older girl finally stepped forward on her own, and put out a hand. He took the hand, shaking it firmly and meeting her eyes. Again, she blushed, looking down, but wary of her pride, he again ignored the blush and merely smiled, murmuring, "I am Lucian. _Charmed_…"

Looking up again, the tall adolescent abruptly grinned, the smile lighting her face up. In about ten years, she would be a beauty to rival her mother.

"_Skadi_," she offered.

"Ah…the goddess of winter and the hunt. A beautiful name."

She nodded shyly…and then piped up, her English measured and precise. Already a child of two languages. _Good, _he thought._ In a few years, her ability to change tongues will serve her well in the ranks._

"My sister is _Heloise," _she said, pointing to his back. "If you ask, she'll just say '_General'…or 'général.' _My mother is teaching her French already…"

He grimaced, realizing he'd neglected to even ask the little child-demon's name. Flipping her from his back, he set the pup firmly on the ground and swiveled her to face him. "_Heloise," _he declared, looking her in the eye. "A writer of great love, if memory serves me correctly. You are named _well_."

"_Général," _she stated firmly, stomping her foot.

"Heloise," he retorted, holding his ground.

"_Général!"_

"_Heloi_…"

"_Enough_," yelled Vienne, allowing her own linguistic gift to show as she now spoke English. "Everyone to the table. Even if _you_ are not, _I_ am starved." She took her seat, and waited for the rest of the world to join her, the tone of her voice brooking no argument as she began tapping her fingers on the cloth. It would appear that Magnus had married a woman of great _impatience, _as well as beauty, thought the alpha with a quirk of his eye. Magnus grinned in answer and headed for the table.

_General, indeed. If anyone's general in this army, it's…_

…_her, _Lucian realized with chagrin, noting that Vienne's claws had started to grow.

Nonetheless, taking a moment to wash his hands at the sink as he watched Skadi and Heloise march for their evening meal, Lucian couldn't help but sense the ever-present shadow of war that followed wherever he went…_the everlasting knowledge that things could turn sinister in a matter of seconds. Although he'd grown comfortable in the past few minutes, Vienne's ability to take him by surprise was still a sharp warning. He'd have to be on his guard from now on. He'd have to be back in Trondheim…the old Trondheim…by tomorrow night. A journey through the blood-soaked city with the storm howling outside._

The alpha dried his hands, still hearing the sound of Vienne tapping her nails as the family waited for him…and shaking his head, he forced himself to smile.

_Though not his den_…for the time being, it was good to be in Magnus' home Smelling the mutton. Watching hot flames bite upon an iron hearth. Old memories of drinking his fill of curdled blood at this man's table…and now the presence of these…friends. Immediately, Lucian headed for the table, noting with some amusement that the little _Général _had chosen a seat next to him and was currently sipping from a children's cup filled with blood, as she offered him a bone. _Typical lycan-fare for a two-year-old monster of the night. _Even if she couldn't growl yet, it seemed at the very least Heloise was off her mother's milk. Accepting the bone and leaving it on the side of his napkin, he sat down, filled his plate with mutton and dug in. There was time enough for _blood-soaked cities_ after he'd satisfied the aching hole where his stomach used to be.

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_**A/N:** Hope everyone likes the new chapter and the presence of some warmth by the fire. Once again, please feel free to **read and review**.._. 

_**Mimyr:** Thanks for the most recent review! Extremely pleased that you enjoyed the last two chapters. For the record, I have to admit, I wasn't actually thinking of a particular Queen song at the time...just the overall feel of Freddie Mercury's power-voice. At the same time, "Who Wants to Live Forever" works some cheeky irony into the mix that I rather like. So...off the record, I think it's probably that song they were listening to. Or perhaps "Princes of the Universe"... (__Though that might be over-kill...just enough cheese there for Lucian to cringe, glare at the window, glare at Magnus, abruptly shoot the radio into pieces and then quietly murmur, while nursing a heavily throbbing headache... "Magnus...can you please...please...**please** stop singing 'I am immortal and have inside the blood of kings'?") Anyway, hope the story stays interesting (and glad you enjoyed the line "appalling homage to sunrise." It was a favourite.)_


	7. Chapter 7: A Shriek in the Distance

**Chapter VII: A Shriek in the Distance**

_The Outskirts of Mørkehule  
Time: 10:32 pm_

_Beneath the ground..._

The monsters were running again. Ill-natured beasts with their metal bellies of sulphur. She could feel them in her blood. Awareness rolling back and forth and glinting through the white light flickering on, off, on, off. And yet she could see nothing. She could feel_...nothing_. Her body lay buried in the rubble, her skeletal form crushed beneath the weight of centuries. Her life-force caught in the throes of hibernation. This vampire of the wolfen clan. Her veins empty and dry…but _pulsating_. Always pulsating. Beating on the winds of a great storm rising against the long-forgotten moon.

And then she heard it…_again_.

_The voice…_

The one who had wakened her three decades ago. Awakened her…but not freed.

"_Fluorescent lights flickering on, off, on, off. Blood stains_," the voice had whispered urgently through the dry earth. She could hear it now as in the night before. Weak and clawing. The violent creature twisted and mad and twitching above the dark surface…

"_Tracks on the ground. Empty birdcage. Straight-back chair by the window ledge. Blood on the marketplace floor…the bloodstained…city. The blood-stained north. Wake, for the wolves are coming…run to the marketplace floor. Line of ants by the hallway. The door stands open. Outside the door stands a man. Between his fingers lies a…g-gun. The trigger goes off. He hits the mirror. Shards of a broken mirror. Wake, for his name is Lucian. Run, for your name is…"_

_Shhhhh, _the voice whispered suddenly.

_A shriek in the distance…_

…and as if on the edge of sleep, the eyes of two seers watched as the creature…_Liam_…chose honour above life. Falling upon the sword of the modern age, the wooden slats of his prison jutting from his chest. The dark blood trickling from pale lips as he dropped onto earth, allowing the strength of his forefathers to falter. Watching the pitch-black heavens as he fell further into his death, the youthful body crumpled against the stones of a forgotten well. His blood spreading beneath the weeds…and along the festering wood. Below the disintegrating walls and the frozen steps of an unmarked tomb.

_Will you take it? _Softly now, the voice whispered. And then again. _Will you take it? _the voice demanded, the words cold and harsh. Louder. _Leaning against the cradle of her worn bateaux._

_Since the night before, the voice had demanded her answer..._

_A choice then_, thought the creature with some amusement. _To sleep under this well. To sleep under the weight of time. This avalanche of mud and stones blanketing these shattered bones of yore. The rust of this armour. The shame of this sword broken beneath the rock of treachery…_

_Or…_

_'Yes'_, she answered in reply. Twenty hours from the time of question, the creature finally gave her answer. '_I will take it.'_

_Then wake, _hissed the _mariner's_ voice suddenly. _Wake beyond your slumbering conscience. And run…_

…_for your name is Áris._

Abruptly, as if no time had passed, the eyes _opened_.

Black.

Burning.

_Áris…_

Gaunt lips …dry and hissing as foreign blood swept through her body, forcing its way past dry rivers of silver growing upon her flesh…_swelling_. Fighting. Urging her spine to _arch_ as she fought against fire trying to eat her consciousness. The dark liquid of flames. The dark blood of a…

…_lycan_.

The change of _breath_.

_Áris._

Her name was…_Áris_.

_And far away…as if in another time, the mariner's voice shrieked her name. The word growing stronger…louder…until it screamed through the night. Over and over, the mantra which wrapped so simply round a warped intellect. Wrapped in fury and yet, snickering with the answer as it spoke. Laughing as it hissed her name. Hissed the name of the creature whose veins lay trapped in the blood-soaked city to the North._

Slamming her fist against stone, the creature abruptly broke through the old floor, dragging her rusted armour behind as the first throes of _Change_ came over her. Blue-veined and broken in her form. The hair clinging to her withered skull as she began to heal. Bones cracking and twisting, her body _withering_ towards the ground…the skin of her back tearing as the sinew knit upon itself. Pale and hoarse in her beauty…a creature of darkness faltering beneath the weight of newly-formed wings. This horror of the night...

…_this last sight of Liam, son of Tadgh._

In seconds, the _Change_ was complete...and still wrapped in her nakedness, the pale creature of darkness kneeled before her voyeur's still-seeing eyes._ The dark hair of a maiden, t__he light of a wolf reflected in her fertile gaze. Around her, the scent of foreign seas untouched by man, waves crashing against the coast. The dried nectar of aconitum hanging around her neck._

"_Fíat iustitia et pereat mundus_," she whispered, her voice soft and soothing as she placed her Latin hand heavily upon his dust-covered brow. Spontaneously dragging him closer into her arms and cradling his dying form. _Let justice be done, even should the world perish_…

"_Nu-no_," he said, the voice drowning in the stale waters of death...his body weakly struggling in her arms…blinking harshly even as the blood ran from his lips. _Blood_. Warm blood…still _pulsating_. "_Y_-_you_ will…_p-perish_."

"...and the world _with_ me," she answered calmly, her cold voice poised on the edge as she mimicked his tongue. Wrapping her lips around a foreign language for the first time in over a thousand years. Without waiting for a reply, she abruptly cracked his spine between her fingernails…

…and began to feed.

_Not just the blood…_

…_or the flesh._

All of it.

…o…

_Four minutes later…_

Above, the wardens of Liam's prison approached the covered well, drawn by the sounds, but unwilling to believe their charge still lived. Months he had lain down there, tortured and broken…throwing back food and slurs. Unwilling to give up his secrets in the face of a species trying to exterminate his people. A lone lycan captured…and run from his bunker prison into the ground. Left to rot in the icy well for the sake of _sport_.

_But Liam was to be avenged_…

_Peering towards the covered well, guns and silver at the ready, his captors looked for their prisoner…and instead of finding death below…the sound of wind shot past their ears. The scent of their own mortality hanging on the fetid breath of a goddess. The silence ensuing as their bodies slammed against massive oak trees and dropped for the dogs of rot to feed on. The blood wrenched from their veins as the monster unfurled her wings, throwing the heavy stone aside and stepping from the icy border. Stretching her limbs on the frozen edges of the old well…her gaze locked upon the storm-ridden sky._

_Breathing deeply of the night air, she suddenly scrunched her nose…_

The scent of fear…

_…and turned her gaze towards the snow-covered bushes._

Catching the last guard in her claws as he tried to run from his hiding place, the monster forced his head back and drew the vampire closer to her lips, turning his head at the last minute so her breath might touch the edge of his ear…

"What is a…

…track?" she asked softly, the bones of Liam still crunching between her teeth as she dropped her rusty armour to the icy grounds. The vampire clutched between her claws _spewing_ his secrets as if born to the object of cowardice. He had no visions of grandeur. No sudden loyalties keeping him from truth. All he dared hope was that he might survive this nightmare. But within a minute, he was dead. His head folded neatly to the side as she inspected his clothing. His strange attire. The metal of his…

…_gun?_

Indeed…the visuals were long in coming. _Confusing_…_strange_...

…but the _words_ stayed true.

_She must find these…tracks…that the voice spoke of. Metal beasts on their tracks of iron. __She must journey through the blood-soaked city. The blood-stained north. Fluorescent…lights flickering on, off, on, off…_

Allowing the wings to fold back into her body, she painstakingly began to strip the dead vampire of his clothing. His tunic and breeches. The…_trenchcoat_. The…_watch. Holsters. _Knives. Everything left in the snow so it would not be soiled by the blood of those around her. _The blood of those who defied her with silver. All of them gone now. _Quietly, she retrieved the snow-covered pile, ignoring the sound of weeping, only staring at those who cried out to her for mercy. As the memory of new words and substances began to sweep upon her conscience, she dressed herself carefully in the abandoned darkness of the old complex, stepping clear of the blood. It was time she left this place. Time she left her tomb for the sake of a gift. For the sake of the corpses who would be found…

_…but not only by vampires. _

_The voice had been clear about that… _

She must run…

…_for the wolves were coming._

_Her wolves… _

Her veins once empty and dry…and now _pulsating_. Always pulsating. Beating on the winds of a dark storm rising against the long-forgotten moon. Already, she could _feel_ them coming. She could _sense_ them. _Wolves_. Thoughtless creatures whose blood she…_coveted_. A change of breath as she leaped into the forest and began loping along pathways long altered since the dawn of the last millenium. Her talons wrapped around a broken sword raised from the tomb below. Her iron armour abandoned to the ground and melding with the blood of vampires.

_Áris, _she thought with a cruel glint of teeth.

_My name is Áris_...

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**_A/N:_** Not really much to say in general except "_Please read and review..."_ and "_I hope everyone likes the new chapter_." 

_**Jen Rock:** A huge thank you for the last review! (I'm very glad you liked the little General. She's a favourite.)_

_**ChristianRockStar:** Glad you love the story so far, and I hope it continues to grab your attention. (It felt wonderful to know you couldn't stop reading!) Anyway, thanks for the lovely review..._

* * *

**_Additional References for Semi-Extreme History Buffs:_**

_aconitum -_ also known as monkshood or wolfsbane. About 250 species. Poisonous (do not eat, even in dried form.)

_Tadgh - _pronounced Teeg. (Irish origin)

"fiat iustitia et pereat mundus" - "_Let justice be done, even should the world perish._" (Latin phrase currently attributed to Ferdinand I.)

The only problem with me using the phrase is that it can only be dated as far back as the early to mid 16th century. Now before you history buffs start yelling _"_..._but if she's been sleeping for x number of years, then how can she use a Latin phrase from only y number of years ago_..._"_, I'd like you to listen first. It turns out old Ferdie_ (Ferdinand...Holy Roman Emperor...pick your poison)_ was also using another similar _"Let justice be done, even should..."_ phrase that can actually be attributed to Piso who lived around 58 BC. _(Can you smell Wikipedia yet?) _Therefore...I'd like you to assume that Ferdinand was influenced or using past phrases that could, _in theory_, be as old as Áris.


	8. Chapter 8: A Dark Night of Planning

**Chapter VIII: A Dark Night of Planning**

_Høst Gård, Norway_  
_Time: 11:12 pm_

Softly, Lucian tapped his glass with an index finger, his other hand carefully scanning through a long list of foreign names. For the last hour, they'd been working out plans for the next course of action. Magnus had been able to provide information on their destination…journey…tactics…supplies…

…_and too many names._

"The numbers?" He gestured offhandedly, tossing the stapled list back towards Magnus and facing his subordinate. Firelight reflecting along the glass and heightening the darkness of blood. A troubled frown starting to cleave his good mood. Supper had long since ended with the children in bed and Vienne making short work of the dishes behind. She had taken on their duties for the time being, by the quiet nod of Magnus' thanks. Leaving them alone to discuss the following night..._a two-man mission into the heart of the blood-soaked city where unsuspecting mortals walked a place of massacre._ Given that his nose was already cringing at the mere thought of it, he'd long since decided a little blood-curdled alcohol couldn't hurt.

_Hell…_

..._they might be dead by tomorrow night._

_Least it could do was give them a little peace a__nd a bleeding headache in the morning._

"Six buildings, fourteen houses on either side as well two factories," answered the pack-leader directly, staring at his glass. Now toying with the small laptop sitting before him as he accessed records. Maps laid out on the table, as well as a navigation system for the Norse rails. Printing results for the sake of Lucian who on occasion still preferred to read off parchment. "Each building has between four and ten floors. Six flats to a floor, give or take two."

"So between one hundred and fifty-eight and…" Lucian paused momentarily, scratching his arm and calculating swiftly in his mind. "…three hundred and seventy-four families."

"Not counting factories, of course…"

_"Of course."_

"…or streets…"

"_Naturally_."

"…or the surrounding area."

"Precisely my thoughts," Lucian said wearily, closing his eyes and massaging his forehead again. Feeling a sudden urge to drop his head onto the table. While he prided himself on a high tolerance for blood-alcohol, even he had to admit he was feeling the effects. There was a different kind of taste to it. A bit like...blood and licorice. A tiny buzz of contentment. If he hadn't been sharing the same bottle as Magnus, he'd think the man was trying to poison him. Blood and iron, here he was _drinking_ the night before a mission. Such weakness should _never_ be seen by followers. He should…he _must_ maintain his dignity (despite the horror of receiving a cheeky goodnight kiss from a two-year old.) His strength. His belief that there was some rational means to organizing this search…

_...yet they had come up with nothing._

_A small margin. An awareness of which areas would be crawling with deathdealers. A knowledge of the terrain. But truth be told, t__here was just too little time to organize. Too little time to search through three hundred odd families in a single night. __On the other hand, given the visionary nature of their source, perhaps they were right on track. __Perhaps it was a simple matter of just being in the right place at the right time. __The rest of their fate left up to circumstance. _

Standing up, Lucian walked over to the fireplace and crouched, staring into the flames. Stoking the fire a bit before he stood up again, his gaze strolling about the room. Magnus was still fiddling about with the laptop, now playing hearts from the look of things. Arrangements had already been made in regards to their transportation. A pair of duffle-bags were by the door, every possible item stowed away in its respective place. _Guns, bullets, rope, blankets, flashlights, smoke and stun grenades, first-aid kits, tranquilizer darts, muscle-relaxants, nitrous oxide, test-tubes, emergency blood._..there really wasn't much more to accomplish save for rifling through papers and going to bed. The couch looked inviting, though even the floor would suffice. The carpet was thick, soothing beneath his bare feet. Feeling the warmth creep along his back, he leaned against the stone hearth, aware that this household held a kind of mystique that lay beyond his grasp. He felt warm. Fed. Comfortable. It held something that was to be treasured. Fought for. Bloods, no wonder Magnus had balked at stirring up trouble. How long since he'd stood in a lycan den that wasn't tinged by war, but...children. There were tiny scratches on the table legs. Dark curtains thick enough to stop moonlight from falling on unsuspecting heads. Even a tiny leash hanging by the doorway. _Had his caretakers ever used a leash on him? He could barely remember. Back then, a lycan tantrum had probably ended with a sound beating before being locked in a kennel._

His eyes came to rest on the bottle. No label. That was odd...

"Magnus," he frowned, staring uneasily into his glass and starting to realize he might have to sit down again. "...this _is_ blood-wine, is it not?" He stalked over to the table and sat down, picking the bottle up.

"Vintage." Magnus was still clicking his virtual cards. Losing by the look on his face.

"What year?"

_This isn't vintage blood-wine, _he thought. Squinting, he brought it up closer, trying to discern what was sitting at the bottom of the Burgundy-style green bottle. Something dark. Wooden. His eyes were starting to...swim. He hadn't drunk that much. Only his second glass...though true, Magnus had been topping their drinks up for the last hour. How much had he drunk? He still had to finish his glass even...

Heaving a bit, Magnus stood up and came unsteadily to the table, acquiring the bottle from Lucian and studying for a moment. Even he was starting to look intoxicated. He placed a palm on the back of the bottle and then mumbled the year... "Fifty one."

_Slap!_

Lucian's palm hit the table forcefully with an appreciative thud.

"Thought as much…" He murmured thoughtfully, feeling his eyes start to focus on the table. "…you know it's the _scent_. Very _rich_." He raised his head slowly, and the room followed about a second too late. Yes...he was drunk. Raising his glass, Lucian downed it abruptly, slapping his palm against the table a second time and pouring himself another two fingers. _Bloods, that was good. __He hadn't done a table-shot in ages. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. They had six hours to sleep it off and lycans processed well while they slept. At least with regular blood-wine. Only God knew what he was drinking right now._

Grimacing at the second _loud_ reverberation, Magnus grunted and took a seat across from Lucian, following the lycan master's lead and pouring himself two fingers of blood as well. The glass was emptied and his hand came down hard, slapping the table for a third echo. "Boar's blood needs more tweaking than rabbit's," he said, pushing the bottle closer to Lucian.

"Tweaking?"

"_Aie_," His eyebrows jumped into a knowing smirk. "_Tweaking."_

Lucian frowned, holding his glass up…"What…_kind_…of tweaking?"

"The kind of tweaking tha…"

_Slap!_

Vienne's hand thumped across the back of Magnus' head, causing the man to turn with a grimace. Letting his glass rest on the table, Lucian couldn't help but grin with mild satisfaction...the grin turning into an innocent shrug as Magnus turned to glare at him for lack of warning. What did the man expect? The woman was pregnant for goodness' sake. He wasn't about to get in the way of a tail-swishing she-wolf just because she wanted to slap her husband's head off. She might even tear _his_ head off.

_Besides_…_no sense interrupting lovers in the midst of their quarrels. _

Her glares took the _both_ of them in however…

"Need I remind you there are souls trying to _sleep_?" She hissed under her breath. Her facial expression hadn't changed. Cold anger. Magnus appeared to be made of butter rather than stone when confronted with his wife.

"Yes, but he…"

"Two miles to the east. There's a den of soldiers scraping walls for ice and bullets. Perhaps you spend the night there?"

"But he…"

She hissed, swiftly shutting Magnus up. "I am not _interested_ in why you're getting piss-drunk on the night before an excursion. Keep the noise down." The woman snatched the bottle from the table and stalked angrily from the room, dropping the wine into the kitchen fridge as she left.

"You _know_…" Lucian wondered out loud, thoughtfully massaging his chin and staring after the woman…ignoring the glowers of Magnus. "…your wife would make an _excellent_ second." His palm tapped the table quietly, causing a slight flinch from Magnus.

The man grunted and continued glowering at Lucian.

"Or even a _first_…"

"Mmphh." The glower subsided a little…

The alpha pressed a little further. "Have you considered recommending her for…"

"She's named in recommendation, not that it needs." Magnus' voice turned to solid pride as he started in on well-known facts of the Northern front. "Den already looks to her as second pack-leader…and sometimes primary depending on a situation."

Lucian sniffed in approval. "Good…_very_ good."

"Well, she was my second to begin with. Enough time together and you grow used to a person. And then you…miss them…and…more."

"I wouldn't know."

Magnus smirked. "Think of Raze. It would be like marrying Raze."

"I want to kill Raze," Lucian muttered dourly, looking towards the flames as they began to swim before him, flickering. Captivating. Liquor in his veins, and all he wanted to do was lie by the fire for the rest of his days and forget the war. Forget the pack. Forget the carrier.

…_o…o…o…_

_Twenty minutes later…_

Both men were stretched out on the floor now, one with his toes to the fire and the other with his head draped limply against an armchair. The bottle, retrieved from the kitchen, sat between them. The old memories coming easily as their friendship passed the stage of estrangement. No wonder he enjoyed Magnus' presence so much in the past. The man got him drunk, that's why.

Raising his head from the ground, Lucian pointed the fire-iron at Magnus. "Candidate's a man. Armed to the teeth and about to shoot the lycan master. Location, Number One?"

Magnus, comfortably propped against the arm-chair, heaved his glass into the air and pointed somewhere to the right. "Blood-soaked city. Three and half miles of square footage. Tracks take up a line through there…we follow the tracks. Scope out windows."

"_Precisely_. Enter from the front with the…" Lucian paused, suddenly lost for words and realizing he was having trouble speaking English. All he could think of was _t__ür_. _T__ür_. _Tür_.

He could see it in his head...rectangular. Tür sounded like...

"…_door_. We enter with the door." _Brilliant recovery_. He dropped the fire-iron and let his head fall back to the ground, proud of his tiny achievement. Not bad for a lycan who spoke over a dozen languages. He hadn't been this happily drunk since the...since the seventeenth century. If nothing good came from this mission, at the very least, he went out with good humour. He could say _door_ in English. How brilliant was that?

"The door." Magnus repeated, raising his glass to Lucian.

"Assuming there is a door…"

"Assuming there is a building…"

Aware that the floor was starting to slip away from him, Lucian made an unsuccessful attempt to flip onto his front. _Ah. No need._ The room was already flipping for him. He picked up the fire-iron with his left hand. "Assuming there is a building, Magnus...it should still take two and a half decades for the two of us to search each and every home in the vicinity. Nonetheless…" He raised his fingers and managed to administer a wobbly backwards-blessing into the air. "…the mission should go…_splendid_."

Magnus shifted his head off the chair and slumped to the ground. "You _know_ it will."

"I _know_…"

"…because _you_…are the alpha…"

"No, Magnus…_you_…are the alpha…"

"Nuhuh…" Magnus waved his arm in the air long enough to attempt to point. "_You_…"

Lucian flourished the fire-iron right back. "…_You_…"

They began to snicker.

…_o…o…o…_

_Three minutes later…_

Vienne stalked into the room, well aware of the _tweaking_ Magnus had performed on his 'Boar-Wine' or 'Red Fairy' as he liked to call it. At the very least, the added wormwood and seventy-five percent curdle would assure both lycans a good night's rest. And a well-deserved headache. With a sniff at their age, she covered the snoring pack-leaders with blankets, stoking the fire a bit more before returning to her guard-post. Her hand resting a bit longer on Magnus' sleeping shoulder before she left the room. She'd wake them in six hours…

…but shifting at the sound of movement, Lucian's sleep began to drift towards harsher _whispers_. Harsher _waters_. _The cold mariner's voice. Enough time together and you grow used to a person. And then you…miss them…and…more._

_Soon…it would be like marrying…_

…_o…_

_Slap._

_Her palm hitting against the table. "You want to quit?" the Nightrunner whispered harshly._

"_No."_

"_Sure?"_

_He slid the glass forward. "Pour…"_

_Cold eyes glinting…hissing when he touched her side. Old wounds. She wouldn't let him touch her side…a month. He was…over the pain. Nothing to remember in this place… Growing used to her voice…gravel. He loved the sound of trains…her voice…missed her…_

_Dying…_

And now awareness rolling back and forth and _glinting_ through the warm light of the fire. His veins _pulsating_. Always _pulsating_. Beating on the winds of a dark storm rising against the long-forgotten moon. And yet he could _see_ nothing. He could _feel_…nothing.

A change of _breath_…

…and the last image of his mind still echoing through the void.

_Gaunt lips …dry and hissing as foreign blood swept through a body  
Talons wrapped around a broken sword raised from the tomb below.  
Iron armour abandoned to the ground and melding with the blood of vampires.  
Something was coming…_

…_o…_

Finally…

…he dropped into dreamless sleep…

* * *

**A/N:** Please read and review, and hope people don't mind a drunk Lucian. (Mimyr, ChristianRockStar, and Helena...thank you so much for the latest reviews! Hope the story continues to entertain...and just as a note for anyone missing _Áris, _know that she will be around soon. Just had to put Lucian to bed first...) 

**Additional References: **Obviously it's not real, but for the sake of interest, Magnus' tweaked Boar-Wine (or the "Red Fairy" as he likes to call it) is based upon absinthe. However...being blood, he has chosen to name it the Red Fairy, rather than the Green Fairy. Naturally (and similar to absinthe), the added ingredient is wormwood. I also assume he's included a higher percentage (say 60 to 75) of curdled (clotted) blood in the mixture, thus accounting for the strong results.

_Perhaps one of these days, I might put together an encyclopedia of lycan lore according to the world of Rushwriter..._


	9. Chapter 9: The Angel of Morning

**Chapter IX: The Angel of Morning**

_Høst Gård, Norway  
__Time: 6:04 am_

_Soft murmurs. __Darkness_…

_...and faint warmth._

_His head was pounding. Only a small light source, but i__t felt like someone was tearing flame across his eyelids. Throbbing. Something slowing his mind. Damn you, Magnus. _Slowly...slowly, Lucian raised a faltering hand to his forehead and sat up as carefully as he could...wincing at the horrific pain spreading across his temples. _He felt brittle. Hard to think…hard to see_. Immediately, the pain intensified, his fist clenching across his face. _He shouldn't have tried to look yet_. The light blinding him, his nightvision struggling between shadows and flame, colours dissolving and reappearing. He twisted to face the darkness, his talons growing unconsciously, feeling the pull of awareness caught in his grip. _Someone was…someone had woken him._

Painstakingly, he cracked his eyes open for a second time, growling softly…breathing heavily and trying not to shudder as his vision finally adjusted. The light came from a small oil lamp. The cold irises of Vienne glinting sharply in the darkness, her pupils dilated from the moon and her jaw tightened in pain. She was forced to kneel where her arm lay twisted behind her back. The empty bottle lying on the ground. A scrunched up blanket tossed aside. His blood still tinged with wine, he hadn't even realized he had caught someone's hand, let alone so hard that…_fuck._

Swiftly, Lucian released his grip, stumbling to his feet. The tiny hostess rose from her crouch, her lips compressed into a thin line. _The bruises would heal within minutes, but the bones_…the woman's fingers were contorted.

"Your hand," he said slowly, still blinking against the light, his voice low and hoarse, a wave of nausea threatening to undo him. "Vienne, forgive me, I did not see you." Shifting his talons back to fingernails, he stepped forward, trying gently to take her hand. Her arm was probably bruised as well. Not dislocated, but he needed a closer look to efficiently examine the damage. _If she would only let him._ "If you would allow me to…"

She shook her head, drawing herself firmly back.

"Vienne, I only wish to…"

Immediately, a spark of irritation flamed in her eyes, cutting him off mid-sentence. She was a female carrying a child. Strength aside, she could do as she pleased, and there wasn't a single member of the pack that would knowingly hurt her. Even as alpha, he stepped back, wary of the volatile nature of lycan mothers. The spark died instantaneously and as if nothing had happened, the tiny woman nodded coolly towards the table. A pitcher of milk as well as the picked bones of poultry lay on a platter. A suitable breakfast for a…_child_.

"Blood will make the headache worse," she murmured. And then with a shrug, "Marrow helps." Already turning to wake Magnus across the room, Vienne stalked off, her expression clearly stating that the broken bones of her hand were a matter of course as she knelt beside the large snoring bulk of Magnus still lying fast asleep on the floor. With a guilty wince, he realized she was forced to put the lamp down in order to wake her husband. Thankfully, the man was too bleary to notice the broken fingers on her left hand which, judging by her strength, would not fully heal until the morrow.

Suddenly weary of this tender den, Lucian bit his teeth at the empty air.

_Damnation…_

_A few more days and the running consensus would be "Lucian mistreats women, women, and more women. He breaks wrists, throws whores off balconies, and starves his ex-mistress. Perhaps next century he'll start killing your offspring…" They could write it on his bloody gravestone._

He stalked to the window, a brooding expression on his face, searching his things out and watching the back of Vienne. She retreated from the room, walking all the world as if her right arm wasn't incapacitated. Magnus was already in the shower. The dark curtains of the room had long since been opened, allowing the moonlight to wash over them both as they'd slept…and without the lamp, his eyes paled, glazing with silver. He quickly grabbed his clothes, ignoring the reflection in the window. _He didn't have time for guilt._ They would leave in a half hour. A quick stopover at the Northern den for a few more supplies, weaponry and ammunition. _Move before dawn, reach Trondheim before dusk. Perhaps if he died this night, Vienne would receive some semblance of an apology._

_And what of the rest?_

_The rest…_

…feeling a strange hunger in his soul, Lucian stared at the room in which he had passed the night. _A number of Heloise's toys left by the hearth. Images of family upon the mantelpiece. A stack of books on the floor…several of them for used for schooling by the covers. Geography. Bloody Pride and Prejudice. A wooden train peeking from beneath a side-table._

There is no _rest_…

Whoever he may be, _whatever_ he may be, the blood of his adversary… this creature…would bring about a new age for the lycans. Miscegenation of the species. Power from the missing link of Corvinus' blood…his long awaited duty to the pack…

And he would live to see it. He _must _live to see it.

For the sake of his species, that day _would_ come.

_And there will be no more apologies for this life, _he thought viciously, stalking towards the shower as the sound of water stopped running. Steeling his gaze and assuming the cold exterior of a killer, he ignored the feast laid aside for _children_.

_…o…o…o…_

_The Outskirts of Mørkehule  
__Time: 9:12 am_

A stream covered in ice, lined by tracks of iron and one who stood by the brush, darkness all around, waiting for the sound that would lead her to the man she must flee …_soon_, she thought…_ morning will come_.

_Did she fear it? Would she fear it?_

"As I would fear the moon," she murmured softly to the dry earth.. Listening to the sounds from afar. Licking the last of the blood from her fingertips. The carcass lying on the tracks.

_Hapless creature_, she thought.

She could hear it.

The train…

With a torrent it was upon her, sweeping past her fingers as she leaped from the ground, the trenchcoat folded in pale arms. Monstrous wings billowed upon a rising current of glacial air and with a twist, the dark-haired woman dropped on all fours, talons hooking into metal as she clung to the mechanical beast. Still she could hear the voice of the Nightrunner in her dreams. And she would fear neither the sun nor the moon for she held sway over both. _"Wake, for his name is Lucian. Run, for your name is…" _the shuddering voice of the mariner had whispered.

_Áris…_

And though she could not hear the Nightrunner's answer, the monster _Áris_ still spoke to the beast riding beneath her gentle form…

"Do not fear, _Nightrunner_," she whispered lightly, her gentle voice caught against the grating metal as she peered at the open world from the back of a demon, her dark hair billowing past her as surely as the wings that had withered into her back. "You will have what you seek." Innocently turning her face to the east, Áris stared at this new…_dawn_…tendrils of colour finding it way across the hills. The first hint of a sun that would soon warm pale skin that had not seen the light of day since her birth over a millennium ago.

"I will flee his presence…"

_The first rays hit…_

"…and he will follow me…"

_A thousand traces of light darting from a single point._

"…and whatever path I choose…"

_For the first time in the eternity of her solitude, a child...a monster…_

"…you will _have_ your retribution."

A _daughter _of Corvinus lay wrapped as an angel cloaked in morning, the innocent beauty of her face awash in the pale morning mist of gold that surrounded her form…the splendour marred only by blood as she began to eat the severed hand saved from her guide's carcass, her teeth wrapping hungrily around the youthful fingers she had so carefully wrapped in her trenchcoat for safe-keeping.

_By nightfall, she would be in the city of the dead._

_The city of blood…_

_Trondheim._

_How it would be good to be home…_

* * *

_A/N: Finally got some writing done thanks to a bit of a snow day. Anyway, a very hearty thank you to Lauren for the recent reviews and a huge apology to any who've been waiting a long time for the next chapter. Please do read and review._


	10. Chapter 10: Blood Scent

**Chapter X: Blood-Scent**

_Road to Trondheim  
__Time: 9:32 am_

The sun had just risen...

_...and forty miles from their destination, the lycans were precisely on schedule._

They pulled into a covered parking lot, guiding the range-rover quickly to the second floor where a sleek van waited, tinted windows and license plate matching a number held so easily in Lucian's memory. Parking a few spaces down, Magnus left the motor running, opening the car door and loping to the back for his duffle-bag. Lucian had already unlocked the passenger door, his fingers grasping a similar bag at his feet. He stepped onto the concrete. His hair tied back completely, eyes searching the grounds, guardedly flipping his hood to cover his face. It wasn't common for vampires to watch the inner roads of day, but a careless movement could bring disaster. Rather than appearing twice in the same vehicle, most short-mission lycans used a medley of cars left at check-points between the inner cities.

_A faint whiff of aftershave met the air…_

…and a moment later, a well-dressed blond man of about thirty…probably sixty…left the shadows. Tossing the keys to Magnus, he ignored the slouching hooded stranger at his pack-leader's side and strode calmly to the range-rover, getting behind the seat and driving off without a backward glance.

Catching the warning look from Lucian, in silence, Magnus circled the van, stooping to check below and above the vehicle. The man rounded on the back, quietly unlocking the rear-door, giving Lucian enough time to crouch at the other side, a silencer now held between his fingers. They waited. A silent count in Lucian's head. _Three...two...one._ Abruptly, the door flung open, Magnus dropping to the ground as Lucian lunged forward, scanning the dark interior and ready to fire in less than a heartbeat.

_Empty_.

_And who were you expecting, _Lucian thought to himself. A cold grimace directed as much at his paranoia as the reason behind it. Again, _she_ lay at the heart of the matter. His mistress of trains and madness. The most documented event in two hundred years, the Nightrunner trial had severed the trust between the twelve packs. A momentuous achievement considering the defendent wasn't coherent enough to realize she was on death row. It had only taken a week for the verdict to come back as guilty, the shadow of her supposed betrayal falling on him when he chose to waive her execution. Whatever Magnus said, he knew there were those who thought he was no longer fit to lead. Those who believed he lacked the strength when confronted with a species that he had once been wed to...

…and for a split second…he thought back, remembering _exactly_ _why_ things were as politically bad as they were now.

_As usual, it was his own doing._

_In the space of a single lycan heartbeat, he remembered…_

_…o…o…o…_

_Six months ago._

Grasping his fingers, the Nightrunner had lain against the wall, weeping silently. Weeping as he forced her to drink yet another sample of blood...

_It had been over a year since the accident. Still, he frequented her abode, drawing her close to his veins though it no longer provoked her visions. Raze had spoken correctly when he said she could not discern truth from lies. Either her gift had burned away or his future held no bearing in this quest for Corvinus' mortal heir. Yet he would not accept that. He could not. After all, science was slow and blood-sight had been the unseen edge of his campaign. He simply needed a better way of ascertaining whether it was the seer or the blood that was at fault._

_Simple enough._

_Feeling decisive and loitering in the laboratory one night, he had come up with a better alternative. I__t was common practice for his chief geneticist, Singe, to conduct an annual test on all members of the lycan strike-force. Every soldier from every pack sent their blood at least once during the year. __A precautionary measure in case one of them accidentally bit a mortal who carried the Corvinus strain, fate provide. The soldiers were tested on blood counts, hormone levels, enzymes, antibodies, a basic metabolic panel (BMP,) and a blood film checking for parasites. __Calculating, he watched as Singe poured the extra vials down the drain. Over a pint of refrigerated blood gushing into the waste before the geneticist moved onto the next subjects. Surely they could do better than that. In less than a fortnight, he'd arranged it so that all surplus units were given into his possession._

_He assumed the sheer volume would eventually kill her, b__ut it was a small vial that pushed events into motion. Filled rich and opaque, the transparent glass labelled 16-A in Singe's precise and yet mechanical handwriting. _Unlike the others, the lady had taken to it like an osprey trying its wings after a long stint below water. Her eyes widening in recognition. Only a taste and she had fallen into a trance, her body shaking uncontrollably in his arms. At first, it seemed too much blood, too fast. Drowning in the vision and unable to speak the words. _The burnt one is dying_, the nurse had hissed. Rena. Tawny hag of the gutter, he'd sent her from the room, but the words had stuck in his head. _The burnt one. No longer the Nightrunner. Only the burnt one now. A body. A pair of eyes. A tool. Something to be used. Something to be cast aside, for he could no longer acquaint this charred woman's face with that of his mistress._

Finally, the bird surfaced...

_A child of Corvinus, _she whispered, harsh and cold as she had been in the past. He knew her voice again and chided himself for having let it slip from his grasp. Stroking the curve of her cheek as she crooned..._ Caught in the wooden slats of a tomb. An aged warrior who has shown merit in the past. A trusted friend on the eve of St. John. The Rose of Budapest. _For an eternity he waited as she struggled on, unable to break the cycle of the words. Over and over, she whispered them, falling deeper and deeper into the vision. He knew he could not save her if she did not resurface...he knew that now. Removing his hand from her grip, he took the vial labelled 16-A from the side-board and left her on the floor. _Soldier __16-A. The blood of __Liam, son of Tadgh and Síle, enlisted member of the Dublin strike-force. A man who would follow orders without question. A trusted friend whom h__e would now use as he had used the burnt one._

Days before the midsummer festival of St. John, Liam had been sent on the mission. Ordered by Lucian himself and trusting that he would bring the candidate to his knees. Tadgh had been wary of his son's safety, but he and the Twelve agreed with Lucian's decision. Into the heart of Budapest, the ill-fated lycan had journeyed, intent on finding his way to a famous tomb located in the second district._ The Rose District. The tomb of Gül Baba. A sixteenth century mausoleum__ once made of lead and wooden tiles. _Like the Twelve, Liam had believed there was some hope for their cause by following his leader's instructions...but unlike them, the day he received his orders was the last anyone ever saw of him.

By the time the flag runner arrived at the rendezvous point, the scent was warm and the car empty. Drops of blood. Liam had been there. He had been there and kept running, leaving a trail that fled wide across the streets and bridges of the Rose District. Wary of secrets, he kept running, leaving his escape open. Letting his enemies believe his purpose lay elsewhere. Skid-marks and oil spattered on the concrete betrayed what had happened. _Abduction_. Already past the early hours of morning, the Twelve still hadn't been informed yet...

...but knowing the siutation was about to escalate, Lucian was already on the phone, questioning Kraven and determined to get to the bottom of this. _Though he had to give the man credit._ _The Rose District was probably the safest and most dangerous place to be lycan after you made it past the deathdealers. Vampires didn't expect lycans, and lycans didn't venture into a residential area teeming with the elite. A kind of mutual agreement to not bother trying. In any event, there hadn't been a skirmish in the district for over fifty years…_

Or so Kraven said.

"_I don't know what you're talking about," the vampire yelled in the phone._

"_A man, Kraven…and keep your voice down! Budapest. An unmarked car in the second district. It might have been kept quiet…"_

"_Nobody's chased anything there since World War II, Cousin. I would have been informed…"_

"_You're certain?" he pressed, on the verge of throwing the phone at the wall._

"_It's the second district for fuck's sake. The Rose of Budapest. Even a mongrel stands out…"_

"_Do not aggravate me…" he growled. Already starting to lose his temper._

"_Look, _you _called_ me, _Cousin...if one of your dogs is missing, better look on the inside this time. Unlike strays, my deathdealers know to come when they're called. In the mansion and accounted for."_

"_Your deathdealers know you're a swine, Kraven. When was the last time you left the mansion? Too risky for you? Are you hiding behind the blinds right now?"_

_"Isn't that your job?"_

_"Go fuck yourself," he barked._

"_Stop calling me, and I'll have time to," the man hissed, hanging up the phone. Silence. The tone starting to beep as it became apparent that for once, the insufferable swine at the other end had managed to carry the last word. It did little to improve Lucian's mood._

"_Touché…" he murmured with dull anger, __crushing the phone into his fist and flinging the remains into the fire. _The vampire could have been lying, but…_why?_ They'd always been upfront when members of their respective species fell to one side or the other. And for once, he actually trusted Kraven's word. Perhaps the one person in his entire circle he could trust to remain a fool.

_Nonetheless, he knew someone had betrayed him..._

_...but the situation was out of his hands._

In the following days, the Twelve latched on the Nightrunner like wolves on a wounded hind. They knew Liam was dead and a vampire had been involved. The stories grew wilder as they approached the final verdict. _She betrayed Liam to the vampires. She must pay for Liam's death. She has poisoned the Twelve with lies. _But they already knew she was innocent of the crime. Only _they_ had known of Liam's mission. Only _they_ were aware of locations and coordinates. Only _they_ were able to abduct a lycan in broad daylight. Blinding themselves in public, trusting each other openly, while snarling behind closed doors, sneaking about with hooded eyes. Like a shadow stalking at the corner of his vision, he knew as well as they that one of _them_ was the traitor. One of the Twelve. Which one, he knew not.

_So ended the trial of the Nightrunner. A pointless exercise in denial and suspicion. With the execution waived, politics resumed its normal pace, but the base of their standard had been snapped. Too much had been left unsaid. Too many began to realize things were not as they seemed, a dull rumble of animosity sounding beneath the floorboards. Even now, though he trusted Magnus, he knew he was walking on foreign ground, no longer running his own pack. The Northern soldiers might have joined ranks against him, and only a dead man entered an unmarked car without checking for assassins first._

_If nothing else, Liam's death had surely proven that._

_…o…o…o…_

The heartbeat ended, _drawing him back into the present time_.

_Enough_, he thought grimly.

_High time they were off._

Ten seconds later, the back of the van was locked and the two lycans were in the front, staring forward, driving in silence and making no mention of Lucian's distrust of the blond lycan. _Any_ lycan, for that matter. In less than an hour, they had abandoned the vehicle on the outskirts of the blood-soaked city, five miles from the centre, stalking by foot through forest and snow. Dressed in browns, greys and black for the coming night and blending already with the dead trees around their loping forms. They would be approaching from the south, passing roughly a league or so around the nearest vampiric coven. _Mørkehule_, they called it. Like a dark burrow…a _hole_, Magnus tried to explain between breaths, dodging between branches as he led the lycan master who matched him stride for stride at a dead run. _Bad blood…_

_An infestation…_

Lucian merely nodded, saving his breath for the rest of the lope. Much of what had been in the duffle-bags had been transported onto their backs, rifles and shotguns strapped in spine-holsters, smaller guns and ammunition on their persons. It would still be several hours before they entered the city, in part due to the zigzagging path of snow they were treading…

…but mostly, due to the toll booths.

Activated by the city in the early nineties, it was only a matter of time before the vampires of Mørkehule began seeing the _Trondheimspakken_ or Trondheim Toll Scheme, for more than it was worth. Every entrance to the city was cordoned off by an official barrier registering every vehicle as it passed, backed up by the bloody government. Access to _those_ records was a hop, skip, and a jump from making sure Trondheim was listed first on every list of "most unpopular lycan getaway." Add the rest of its history and even Ordoghaz became "pleasant." Even the stuck-up vampires of Budapest would agree. Already for centuries, it had been a hardly well-kept secret how the Hungarian vampires felt about Northern covens. The simple fact that Mørkehule showed its allegiance during council meetings meant nothing. Budapest was a long way from the Norwegian Sea and as far as Mørkehule was concerned, Kraven's jurisdiction stopped about ten miles from the border of his own ass.

Dropping to their haunches, the two lycans paused for a minute, catching their breath softly in a small pocket of snow-covered trees, their bodies hidden between valleys of spruce and pine. A few birds rustling the branches above their heads and the scurry of a fox down below. Or a squirrel. Or some creature that had bloody well not be taller than his calf muscle. _Three more hours of daylight. Perhaps less. _He concentrated on evening his breath…keeping track of the time as he checked his watch for the hundredth time since they'd started loping. A few feet away, Magnus had his eyes on the sky as often as not, still managing to reach into his pack, taking a swig from a metal canister as he furtively glanced to the east, chucking the damn container at Lucian without so much as aiming.

Already scowling again as he caught it mere inches from his own face, Lucian sniffed the dark scent of sultry hot blood kept _only_ for emergencies. As usual, Magnus was forgetting his brain …or simply didn't care if they were stranded without aid…or…_what the hell… _Raising the canister in a toast in the general direction of Mørkehule, he smirked at Magnus and took a long swallow. Probably not the brightest thing to do in a vampires' back yard, but as long as no trace was left behind, there was nothing like giving the old fuck-you to a distant cousin. Noting the toast, Magnus chuckled quietly and secreted the drink away as quickly as he'd found it, licking his teeth and hopefully aware that would to be the last taste they would have for some time. Regardless of how careful one might be, vampires still had the tendency to track blood like a whore looking for her next paycheque.

_Speaking of which…_

_...it's about time we stopped beating about the bush, _he decided, fixing his eyes on Magnus, watching as the man again glanced upwards. Following suit, Lucian raised a hand to shade his eyes, his finger pointing to the sky where a host of carrion eaters _should_ have been turning amongst themselves, their flesh-eating bodies _absent_ from an area less than a mile to the east.

"_Looking_ for something?" he murmured quietly, his face on the verge of boredom even as his eyes grew colder than snow, his tone entirely too casual for having pointed at the exact spot Magnus had tried not to look at for the past hour.

Cocking his head slowly to the side, the pack-leader of the North only stared impassively at the lycan master, his expression about two notches from rebuke. And anger…hardly the time to deal with blood-scent, but there it was. Perhaps he'd forgotten Lucian had a nose. Taking a gulp of snow, the man finally answered with a nod, taking care to wipe his mouth with the back of a too-steady hand.

"_Blood_…" Magnus grunted uneasily, shrugging the scent away. "…but the scent always comes from those parts. I expect they had a bit extra to feast on or some such."

"I smell a bit more than a bit, Magnus…"

"It could be…"

"…a mere river of blood," Lucian interrupted, callously cutting off the other lycan as easily as knife through butter. "Not a few red cells. Not the nectar of the gods, and bloody-well, not genetically-engineered _plasma_." The last word was punctuated by a snarl. "Now, I have a feeling what this is about, Magnus, but it'll go faster if you explain it. What lies there? It's too far east for Mørkehule."

"_Urðar-brunnr_," the pack-leader answered gruffly, forgetting for a moment to speak English, leaning his back against a tree as it was apparent the twenty-twenty was coming. "You know, _the Well,_" he finished, roughly translating the words for Lucian.

_I knew it, _thought Lucian bitterly. "What else?" he questioned.

"A small complex. They keep it a few miles outside the damned _hule_."

"You've watched them…"

"Occasionally. They just set up shop a few months ago. Maybe six dozen soldiers. We try to keep up with them, but we haven't been this close to the facilities in months. They train, target practice, contact sports and the like. They don't usually smell like…_like_ _that_." He scratched the back of his neck, starting to look uncomfortably withdrawn. "Thing is, though, we don't usually venture there so often because of the old…"

Biting back a growl, Lucian cut him off with a raised talon. Aware that Magnus had certain beliefs…and aware that nothing would change that beyond shooting the man, dumping him in the old well and allowing him to become one with the damned soil.

_Allowing him to become one with his fear. Fear instilled by tales of an old well where the massacre of Trondheim first began. The setting where the Northern forces were first betrayed with the slaughter of two thousand lycans…_

…_men, women and children. _

_And Magnus…_

His eyes turned to slits.

_Magnus could shoot a vampire point-blank in the head, __but he quailed at the idea of approaching a hole in the ground…_

Exhaling irritably, Lucian shifted his body weight, scraping a handful of snow into his mouth, attempting to lower his temperature and the fury now threatening to murder Magnus. Only too soon realizing the futility of his actions as his eyes started to glaze through the sunlight. _Not a bluff this time. The last thing he needed right now was fur. _Stubborn to the end, he bit the bottom of his lip, forcing himself to keep his form. Controlling his temper even as his teeth lengthened, closing his eyes and envisioning a place of soothing beauty. _A fire…a hearth…and a bowl of water. Tranquil water. Stormless. He was the water._ Calmly, speaking as though he were discussing weather or…an execution, he began…

"Magnus…" _Good beginning. Remain calm._ "I am aware of the history of Trondheim…"

_Breathe_…

"Keeping that in mind, do you not think it wise…"

_Keep breathing. One with the calm…_"…for us to examine at this juncture…"

_Starting to speak faster_…_his voice starting to growl…_"…why the tell-tale scent…"

…he lost it.

"…of a _bloody_ _outdoor_ _massacre_ is drifting idly down below?" Hackles rising, his voice had become poison, the volume hardly above a whisper even as his tone threatened murder. "Even vampires do not feast to that extent!" Magnus had already backed away, and with a start, Lucian realized he had shoved the man against the tree, his talons scoring into the bark…_pine_, he realized mechanically. _He'd torn into Magnus' coat, but no scoring of the flesh…blood leaves a trail. _Gathering his form, he drew back swiftly, taking a deep breath of air and releasing his grip on the other lycan. Allowing bits of wood to fall from his fingers. The second time in two days he'd been hacking at wood. Snarling, he turned, ignoring the towering form of Magnus sliding to the ground. Aware that the strength of Change had come over him.

Daylight…

…he'd almost changed during _daylight_.

_It was vital they found out what had occurred down there. A power struggle. A battle. Whatever happened might have affected the state of things in Trondheim. Easier or more difficult, it would still affect the mission. But instead of investigating, they'd wasted precious time circling the area while Magnus decided whether or not they ought to pass close enough to a well._

_A bloody hole in the ground._

Shaking his head, he reached for his pack and eyed the man coldly, daring him to turn the other way. Magnus just nodded, having backed down completely. He grabbed his pack and turned eastward, his words coming out with quiet respect.

"We'll reach the general area in about ten or fifteen minutes. Shouldn't be too hard to make our way down from there unseen."

Lucian nodded silently, wanting to snarl at the delay and holding himself on a tight rein as they made their way down. He could not risk changing during daylight.

_Three hours to nightfall, _he thought.

_…o…o…o…_

_The Nightrunner's Abode.  
Hundreds of miles away...  
Time: 12:32 pm_

The curtains were drawn and the shutters closed. The Nightrunner stretched out on the bed, breathing shallowly. Fast asleep for all that she'd slept most of the night already.

"Hold on," whispered Rena, cradling the bird's head by candlelight. Stroking the burnt one's feathers and hoping against hope there might be strength in her shallow veins for a few more nights.

"Just a few more," she pleaded, uncertain of why…what use. Only that she would be alone again. No more pups. _No sense in informing Lucian…he already knows she is passing, but…_

…_but what?_

She picked up the phone.

_…o…o…o…_

_Road to Trondheim.  
Twelve miles ahead…  
Time: 12:32 am_

Leaping from the top of the train, Áris caught the updraft, allowing herself to sweep back into the air, beating the wings which now carried her above…watching as the _train_ continued, darting beneath her towards the city that lay stretched out before her. An unending vision of plunder. As the last compartment passed beneath her form, she twisted suddenly, her bones knitting and her wings crumbling to naught, the leathery rags collapsing against the base of her spine. From afar, it seemed as if she dropped like a weighted stone from over thirty feet, her body landing sharply on the rails, the metallic echo traveling as far as the train moving swiftly off into the distance. Still on all fours and drawing the last of her breakfast from her coat, she kissed the tip of one finger and placed the bloody mess carefully by the side of the rail. Poisonous leaves to cover her path.

"_A few more_," she whispered to herself. "And then I will come for _you_, Nightrunner…"

Leaving the morsel of blood where it lay, she stepped out upon the tracks and began to lope, aware of the blood-scent flowing out from behind her.

The trail…

…and what a chase she would lead him.

* * *

Reference notations: 

**Gül Baba:** A sixteenth century poet credited with being the first to bring roses to Hungary. His tomb is in the second district of Budapest.

**Mørkehule:** literally means "dark burrow" in Norwegian. (I figured I'd throw out grammar and just use the dictionary when coming up with a name. Since the language is germanic, I expect it should probably be Hulemørke or something, but then Mørkehule sounds _so_ much better.)

**Oppdal:** a small city near Trondheim. About forty miles to the south if you look it up on the map. _(Yes, I have a small map of Norway that I like to use when charting Lucian's course.)_

**The Rose of Budapest:** nickname for Rózsadomb, District II, in Budapest. Considered to be one of the most expensive districts in Budapest along with District XII. _(Yes, I have a map for that as well. Mwahahahha...)_

**Síle: **pronounced Shee-la (Irish origin)

**Tadgh:** pronouced Teeg (Irish origin)

**Trondheimspakken:** the tollscheme initiated between 1991 and 2005 for the Norwegian city of Trondheim. I figure since we haven't reached 2005 yet in this particular story, it still stands.

**Urðar-brunnr:** Norse Legend. The well of the Wyrd is said to be at the base of Yggdrasil (the tree of the world.)


	11. Chapter 11: The Well of Ash

**Chapter XI: The Well of Ash**

_The Outskirts of Mørkehule_  
_Time: 12:51 pm_

The frozen air of winter ought to have weakened the scent in time, yet the path could have been covered in entrails as far as _they_ were concerned. The two lycans kept to the trees, sniffing their way and loping swiftly between thick groves. Silent and deadly as they assumed the unspoken commands of the hunt. For it was not just blood they smelled…the river, as Lucian so bluntly suggested. It was the meat drawing them on as much as the liquid itself. The crux of the matter. The question of why meat-scent was drifting from a vampire complex…vampires did not eat meat. They were clean creatures, disposing of their meals as quickly as they bit into their necks.

_The stench growing as they approached the grounds…_

Eventually coming to a clearing where…

Lucian stumbled abruptly, unable to mask the cold grip of pain breaking his stride. Twisting on his feet, he turned the stumble into a crouch, biting off an oath as he stared between snow and spruce at the clearing beyond the well. Magnus whispering something behind him…an unconscious prayer, it seemed. Whispers of gods and mercy.

Perhaps…but not for _this_.

Ash coated the snow. The bodies themselves all burned into life-size effigies of dust…he hated them. Hated the vampires, but…_cruel_ was the word for it. _Carnage_. There were women among the bodies. Every single one of them torn in half. No battle…and no glory to be had from what had been done. The ash itself frozen to the ground…in parts…pieces of vampire flesh. Some had been dead when they began to burn, but others...others had been dragged forward and staked onto the ground. _Staked for the coming sun._ If he touched one of them…

Even the _smell_…a wonder he hadn't sensed it right away…but it had been years. Centuries. The ash frozen to the ground, but the odour…distinctive.

He wanted to retch.

_Rotting cadavers…sewage…the most revolting smells in the city could pass by his nostrils without trouble…and yet it was ash that made him retch. Charcoal. And ash. He hated the scent of ash._

The well had been destroyed. The stone cover lying on its side, broken in half as if flung…or _hurled_ was more like it. An explosion had shattered portions of the stone wall, save where larger pieces had been ripped off by ulterior means. For eight long minutes, they crouched in their hiding place…_so close_…keeping still and watching for signs of movement. Signs of life. Both lycans holding drawn weaponry suited to the current terrain. A hunting rifle taken from Magnus' back, while Lucian made do with his preferred shotgun…a testament that "bird-hunting" could be used as a respectable reason for having enough ammunition for an army stashed on his back.

_But the scent that had drawn them lay further back…_

He could see it from beyond the thicket...

_A metallic building squared off and bound behind chain-link fences beyond the well. The door ripped off by its hinges. Icy white snow counter-balancing the shadowed entrance like a dark orifice calling them to draw nearer…nearer…so it might share its secrets. Every available window smashed…the shutters turned into splinters. The scent of…death. The shadows of the building…perhaps the cellar…keeping alive a scent that could only emit from darkness…_

_…the only place in this area where vampiric blood could remain spilled in the light of day._

_It was from there that the smell came._

Keeping to what shadows there were, the two lycans began stalking guardedly into the clearing. As they passed one of the bodies, Magnus put a finger down to touch…a female by the look of it…slim…her body ripped in half. What little trace of her features captured by the sun even as it burned her hair off…her eyes haunting them with a vengeance as he searched for any signs of returning life. He avoided the woman's blank stare. _God…let her disintegrate. _But his companion only tapped the body, showing how the ash had become as hard as ice-covered stone. Shrugging, Lucian stared coldly at him before nodding towards the well.

Side by side, they approached it, walking in silence and wary that what had killed the vampires might still be lurking in the ground beneath. Even the birds had abandoned this place. No hum or clatter except for the crunch of snow beneath their feet…exceedingly noticeable in the piercing silence. A _dangerous_ silence. A fair distance from the shattered stones, they halted…eyeing the well carefully before Lucian, stepping to the edge, picked up a rock and lobbed it into the crevice, listening intensely as it hit dirt. The well itself, a hole about six feet in diameter. Two more rocks…and then crouching, he reached for the flashlight fastened to the left side of his backpack. A second smell coming from down below. Like meat, but…

…_familiar_.

With no explanation, Lucian quietly signalled Magnus to check the perimeter, ignoring the look of confusion. He waited until the man had stalked at least twelve feet away before peering into the well._ Enough space to run, _he thought resignedly. Aiming light against the sides, he slowly turned the flashlight, panning left and right…making sure to hit all angles of the broken-down inner well. Leaving no facet unlit for the chance that what had murdered those vampires might still be clinging to these walls. His shotgun rested easily in his right hand, his finger stone-still on the trigger, all the while his thoughts keeping him company through the silence...

_It ought to have been him who killed those vampires. __His lycans. His faction. Cold and clean…a shot to the head. This entire episode only pointed to another creature not under his influence. Not a comfortable place to be in. Raze would undoubtedly think he ought to thank whatever had performed this carnage…as horrific as that sounded. Whatever creature…whether vampire…lycan…or…_

The flashlight hit the bottom.

…_not human._

"God," he whispered.

Abruptly, he saw Magnus backing rapidly towards the well, his rifle still aimed at the forest, his scent growing increasingly agitated. Eyes turning to slits, Lucian turned the flashlight off, ducking to the side of the broken well and waving the soldier back to his post. _Keep your eyes on your task, _he inwardly hissed...but the unspoken order went unnoticed. Ignoring everything he'd been taught in the past five hundred years, Magnus was already peering into the black, circling the well with his rifle as he tried to see what lay at the bottom. _Idiot_. _The man's nightvision was about to kick in during daylight. Fine for looking in a well, but what about the split-second when you're attacked from behind? _

"_Magnus_," Lucian quickly hissed, getting the man to look up. _The man was spooked, but at least his eyes were clear._ Pointing two fingers to the sun, he tossed the flashlight over to him and rose from his side of the well, shotgun in hand and keeping his eye on the periphery. The last thing anyone needed to see was..._that_...before investigating a situation, but while Magnus looked, he would take care of the surround. _Whatever had done this, it could still be out there._ Yet in the back of his head, he was aware that the true danger lay on a larger scale. Something dreadfully wrong about what lay below. The image continuing to play itself through his mind, a broken record...

_Liam had been...__consumed._

_Pieces of him snapped and swallowed. Bones lying cracked and wasted where portions of his spine mingled with half-eaten lungs and intestines. Half his skull crushed, the brain sucked out. Parts of him entirely unrecognizable while the rest…like the shell of a mangled doll lying with its stuffing twisted about the form. Hardly any blood left for a smell to emit, but…whatever he had expected from this sojourn…it was not this._

Behind him, he heard Magnus whine softly, almost a moan, the scent of fear creeping through his breath. Their eyes met and immediately, Lucian nodded, turning his head coldly from the man's face and back to the surround._ Better he let the man master himself now, so it wouldn't be an issue later. _At the affirmative, the other lycan crouched against what little remained of the broken well. Rifle clutched between tense knuckles…white from the pressure of gripping his gun. Counting in his head, Lucian moved away and continued watching the trees, slowly circling and sniffing the air. The scent of fear was slowly being replaced by resignation, and now…_anger_…

_But it had to be asked..._

"Magnus," Lucian said quietly, watching the man's face carefully from the corner of his eye. The man hadn't moved. "Did you order this?"

The man shook his head.

"No."

A rough whisper barely perceptible in the silence, but Lucian nodded, accepting the answer. _Little wonder the vampires used it as a prison when lycans spent their days telling horror stories of the old well. Magnus should have moved past this by now. __Speaking of moving..._

Quietly stepping from the well's edge, Lucian began to follow a pair of tracks littered upon the ground. _Smudged, but essentially human...barefoot. This was their culprit. Though he didn't think it possible, this creature might even be older than himself based on the strength needed to shatter that well. Perhaps a fellow lycan prisoner gone berserk...or rabid. It had kept its human form during the killing. Sporadic footing…as if the creature couldn't make up its mind whether to walk, run or…_

The tracks stopped.

His eyes widened and raising his head, turning one way and the other, he frowned at the building before them…_over forty feet away…an untouched distance of forty feet_. The ground was clear, the running steps of others fleeing whatever chased them...and the fencing dented along one end. The rusty mesh torn and crushed, framing the area where the creature had landed after leaping a forty-foot distance. The tracks continued further along past the fencing.

_Leaping or..._

_No, _he thought stubbornly…

_There is no explanation for a leap of that distance._

_None_.

Swiftly motioning Magnus to get up, he glanced at his watch for the first time since they'd approached the old well. _Two hours of daylight left_. _They would have to leave the body in its final resting place…pray that Liam's soul would forgive them._ Putting a hand on Magnus' shoulder, he turned towards the metallic building. Sprinting across the grounds, thoughts racing ahead of him, slipping past the fence. Magnus two steps behind as they reached the door…

_Liam, captured in Budapest…transported to Norway…the blood fresh. __Death occurring last night…perhaps even this morning…and the lycan master on his way to Trondheim to stumble upon a carcass. __She had given them both visions of finding Corvinus' heir…__so why did one of them lie dead at the bottom of the well?_

_There were pieces missing here…_

Silently, they stepped across the broken threshold...

The fruitful scent of blood and gore wafted from down below, the main floor deserted in a hurry. Every gun had been thrown into a corner, the metal twisted, silver bullets strewn haphazardly around. Shots fired through the walls. At the last, the vampires had tried to bolt themselves in the cellar, but the heavy door had been forced open. Stepping over the twisted door, Lucian slowly entered the cellar, allowing the small flashlight in his hand to tell the rest of the story. A few empty wine racks along the side of the small room. Some old armour abandoned on the floor. Stones spattered with blood and a small pool collecting where the floor dipped. Around four dozen bodies stacked neatly by the walls. Maybe more…maybe less. It was hard to tell by this point...

_The assailant had managed to create a veritable vision of order and sensibility with his handiwork. __After forcing the cellar door open, he trapped them in a corner...and one by one, dissected them. __Arms with arms. Legs with legs. Torsos...heads…feet…every piece ripped apart and placed in its own pile. Women on the right…men on the left..._

Behind him, almost immediately, Magnus started to retch, but eyes narrowing before a single drop could fall, Lucian caught the man's throat in his hand, forcing him upright. Keeping them both back from the walls, and making sure their presence remained unnoticed. The sound of choking, but he tightened his grip, knowing Magnus would thank him in the end. _Eight seconds._ The man could still breathe. Only when he heard swallowing did he finally release him, clapping him on the back by way of an apology. _The sight could turn anyone's stomach, but unknown lycan cells spewed across the floor was not a good idea. In theory, they could burn the entire place down before the vampires decided to pin this on lycans..._

_...but no time to burn the evidence._

_No fuel for that matter…_

Feeling a bit sick himself…finally…he turned to Magnus. 

"No more blood-wine then?"

The man shook his head.

"Good," Lucian muttered, taking the steps four at a time as they climbed the stairs, anxious to meet the fresh air above. _No time to dally in this graveyard._ _At least one of those souls had probably radioed for assistance during the night. That they had used silver pointed to his theory that this creature was lycan in origin. The __Mørkehule vampires would be approaching in a few hours, and their top priority would be __tracking and hunting an escaped lycan. In other circumstance, he might have aided the creature...but once __you ate your own kind, you were packless. Rabid as a lycan, p__sychotic in human form. An untamed creature..._

He exhaled softly in regret. _Pity about the lack of fuel…_

Above ground and keeping their guns in easy grasp, they headed for the nearest exit from the clearing. "The train-tracks," Magnus grunted inaudibly…plainly still shaken from the dissection below. "Quickest way…leads right to the city."

Lucian nodded, gesturing him to lead on as he shouldered his pack…trying to make himself aware that regardless of how savage their species reportedly was, centuries of fighting still could not alter the disturbing effect of forty-eight dissected bodies organized into piles. They might as well have been alphabetized.

_T____he most important thing now was to focus and p____ut as much distance as possible between themselves and the massacre. They had a target waiting for them in the city. ____They had to be careful where they stepped. Though the vampires would be hunting lycan, their scent and any trace of their presence should be lost in the nighttime commotion. T____he____ assailant would likely go further into the wild, its hunger and madness sated for the time being..._

Quickly leaving the scene behind, the two lycans again adopted the mode of the _hunt_…

_Swift_…_silent_…

…and troubled as they realized the creature's blood-scent was still following them…or rather, they were following it. A pair of tracks from the old well led in the exact direction they were planning to go. _Similar agendas, _Lucian considered bitterly…still brooding over the hows and whys of the strange scene behind them. _Something to do with Liam…and himself_. _And…this rabid creature._ _It seemed to have taken a strange, horrific liking to their path, its tracks leaping about them like a bright silver line daring them to find a more time-consuming way through the forest. __As if the creature wanted to be found._

Half an hour later, they stumbled upon the first pieces of human carcass, long since desecrated by a passing train. A torso...perhaps what used to be a leg. Tattered cloth of the same origin as the massacred vampires. _Perhaps a human retainer kept on sight for daylight emergencies. The man was probably regretting his decision to keep company with the undead. __No hint of fur on the ground...only blood. A certain tinge to the scent, familiar and yet distant, a putrid smell which characterized this creature as itself._

_Something off..._

Again, Lucian sniffed the air, aware that he was missing something in that putrid smell. Something seemingly insignificant and yet..._vital_. A small itch crawling between his shoulder-blades. _The scent of a trap closing around them. _Grunting at Magnus, he nodded towards the track, already loping forward as his mind began working on the puzzle. Hand reaching behind his pack to make sure his knives were handy. _Whatever it was, b__y the previous kill, it kept order in its execution. Killed without sympathy. Hunger was no longer an issue based on the carnage behind them. And it had no qualms about killing lycans, vampires, or humans._

Another mile down, they found the first marker, his suspicions confirmed. _Too neat_. _Too orderly. _The creature had even fashioned a little mound just to be sure it would be seen, the dirt bloodied, shaped quickly but carefully beside the track. Most of the flesh had been removed, the fingernail chipped around the edges. Little wonder some passing animal hadn't snatched it up, but even nature found it too strange for a dismembered finger to be used as an arrow. _The creature was thinking ahead. _Lost in thought and idly scratching the back of his neck, Lucian began to circle the mound, vaguely aware that Magnus was talking. Without looking, he nodded, unwilling to speak his opinion. _True...the marker could have been left for the vampires. Yet the blood-scent was already so strong, so putrid...obviously leading them towards the city. A creature so orderly in its actions could see no reason for flogging a dead horse when its entire__ sordid mess already pointed to Trondheim. It might as well have written "this way" in the dirt._

_This way?_

Abruptly, he turned to look down the track. _The far-off city in the distance, warm lights starting to emerge as they approached dusk._ _Smoke rising from houses filled with life._ _On his right, a tiny mound with a finger on top. Blood-scent all around. Overpowering scent. __Rank. Putrid..._

_...and something else._

_Something that did not fit._

_This way, _he repeated, quietly in thought, drawing closer to the mound and sniffing. Distantly aware of Magnus moving on, the sound of gravel crunching and steps growing softer. He ignored everything but the scent, inhaling even closer, breathing deeply through all the smells that surrounded him. _Blood. Dirt. Rust. Steel. Rankness. _Magnus was calling his name. He opened his eyes. Reaching beneath his pack, he retrieved one of the knives stored at his side. Not the combat-knife, but the switchblade. Flipping it open, Lucian speared the finger and brought it closer to his nose. Turning it...eyeing it. _Dried blood, flesh, gore, and bone._ _Not the finger._ He sniffed it once more and then flung it aside. _Something deeper._ Using the same blade, he began to sift the soil carefully. Moving deeper into the ground beneath the mound, the stainless steel digging through blood, churning mud and drawing out the source. _A hollow stem cut in pieces so the yellow liquid oozed from the centre._ _The cluster of flowers dead and gone in the midst of winter._ He inhaled deeply, finally smelling the rank scent of carrots and mice that followed this creature. _Genus cicuta virosa. Water hemlock._

"_Lucian_," Magnus hissed from behind. Very grim. "You smile at poison."

Surprised, Lucian looked up, raising an eyebrow in question. _W__as he smiling? Perhaps he was..._ Yet he was on the verge of understanding. The more he breathed, the more he could _almost_ smell it. Shaking his head, he abruptly stood up and flung the plant to the wayside, stabbing his knife-blade into the snow. _Forget the hemlock._ _Any undead fool under the night can track hemlock. _Taking a deep breath, he exhaled forcefully, trying to clear his nose. Motioning Magnus to step back and inhaling the spot where the creature had stopped to create its mound and marker. _Too much blood at the complex and by the carcass...but here. Only a finger. Misguiding ruse, the putrid smell masked the air. The vampires would follow the hemlock and fancy themselves blood-hounds. But deeper, drifting on the wind_, _the creature must have known this one smell would betray it and yet, it would not leave it behind. A_ _keepsake...or a__ lure._

And suddenly, there it was...

...the heavy scent.

_Barely there, the cutting so old, he had not even smelled it until now._

_Nectar of aconitum._

_Genus aconitum lycotonum, also known as monkshood or wolfsbane. Poisonous to any creature walking the earth, yet associated with killing wolves. Hardly surprising to a novice of lycan history, yet as masters, vampires had given up carrying the plant when they realized lycans could track the scent. Not so easy to poison someone when they could smell where you were and what you were carrying. On the reverse side, wolfsbane was an easy lure for anyone who hunted lycans. And this scent was faint. An old cutting._

_One that vampires would not smell..._

_Bloods, that was an old trick._

Feeling a strange rumble in the back of his throat, Lucian abruptly began to laugh, the rolling peals loud and harsh, echoing through the forest._ How long it had taken him, yet he should have noticed it before. The smell too faint. Too impossible. This was no blood-hunt...this was a lure._ _The creature was leading both parties behind it._

_Hemlock for vampires. __Aconitum for lycans. __The first plant was strong enough that the vampires would follow it, incensed from the massacre and believing the creature was egging them on. __The aconitum was faint enough that only lycans could smell it. The creature assumed they would follow, intent on tracking down Liam's killer. The vampire massacre became a side-step, and Liam's murder, an action of bait. __The final blow would only occur later in the game._

_At some point, the trails would diverge. The blood-scented hemlock would go one way, and the scent most veiled would go another. Both parties would hasten after each scent, believing they were on the creature's tail...but as the lycans trained in on the aconitum, they would be ambushed from another direction. The creature would smell of neither blood, aconitum nor hemlock. It was essentially masking its scent, three times over. For all he knew, it could smell of roses..._

_...but it definitely was tracking lycans, not vampires. _

_It knew they were coming. _

His nails grew into talons and striding over to the track, he seized the frozen hemlock, his laughter dying so quickly it was as if it had never been. Carefully placing the stem in his backpack, Lucian swiped his knife clean from the ground and returned it to his belt, not even bothering to explain to Magnus. He squinted at the setting sun and then stood, turning back to the road. His mind working swiftly, his nose following the tracks once more, the single name on his tongue having taken the guise of a curse... 

_Nightrunner…_

_S__he had sent him into a trap._

"That creature is _hunting_ us," he hissed at Magnus, words punctuated by a snarl as he began to run faster, already in sight of the next marker lying further down the track.

Growling, his subordinate picked up his pace, keeping in line, cold breaths shooting from his tongue. His fear was gone...instead anger, the scent of aggression sky-rocketing.

"Those _vampires_ will hunt us if you don't drop that plant," the man grunted.

"_I know,"_ Lucian replied curtly, glaring at the marker from afar. _An eye this time. Blue like the sky. Placed on another mound for their viewing pleasure. The creature had a keen wit. They could watch it as it watched them..._

The other man halted in mid-stride. "You know?"

Feeling sharp eyes on the back of his head, Lucian slowed to a stop and turned, disgruntedly staring back at the other lycan. Without checking his stance, he stalked forward, balancing his feet on the train tracks and crouching down to where the blue-eyed marker sat. _Always more questions._ _Everytime he spoke_..._Lucian, how can it be? Lucian, tell us more!_ _A two-word answer should suffice, and yet..._

"_I_ _know_ it thinks to take us before the vampires," he murmured quietly to Magnus. Finding his combat-knife, he roughly stabbed the eye and flung it aside, digging up the water hemlock and once again, carefully placing it in his pack, smoothing the earth and snow so the mound was gone. Calmly, he wiped his blade on the snow, his voice cold and harsh... "...but it has _misjudged_. It has forgotten that, like it, we also fight with strategy. The fork in the road will come, leading both parties one way or the other..." He gestured with his knife, right and then left. He pointed to his pack. "Thanks to its use of hemlock, the creature will think the vampires are lost, following the wrong scent...when in truth, they will be on our tail. When the time comes to strike, we will _vanish_, Magnus. The vampires will kill the creature, and we will be _done_ with this massacre." He stabbed his blade into its holder. "Now should I _repeat_ myself or is that not the same as '_I know_'?"

Magnus punched his fist against his palm. "Lucian, have you not _listened_ to a word I've said? It is a _norn_ from Urðar-brunnr, it ate Liam, and it _massacred_ those vampires. It came from the well, for bloods' sake! Norn in front, vampires behind...at least if we let it be, we might survive. The vampires will go their way, we will go ours."

_Norn?_

Lucian scowled, rapidly losing his patience for a language he could not understand. Magnus was specifically not bothering to translate...and by the man's beastly glare, he wasn't about to ask. _They were spooked enough as it was without having to discuss nonsense. _Barking softly, he gestured with two fingers and began loping forward again, signalling Magnus to keep up and hunt. They had wasted enough time already...

_Breathing with every fourth stride..._

_Eyes on the track..._

...but his mind kept working on the word.

_It sounded so familiar. Norn...like the name of a foreign language. Norn, norn, norn..._

_For once, he couldn't dredge it up from the vast lake of knowledge that represented his ego._

_But he wasn't going to ask. __He didn't need to ask._

_He was Lucian, keeper of the..._

"_Magnus_," he grunted crossly, the curiousity finally overtaking him. "...remind me of the word _norn?_"

Magnus spat to his left and sped up so they were side by side. "I've told you before, Lucian, there's a reason northern wolves don't go near the well..._Urðar_-_brunnr_ is the well_. Norns_ guard it. They are shaped like women...demon-fighting goddesses."

"You mean a _succubus?_" he offered viciously between breaths, knowing his disdain was becoming sorely apparent. A shame to insult the man's beliefs, but he would not have fear jeopardizing this mission. _No wonder the man had lost his courage._ "_Come,_ Magnus, you are not afraid of a wives' tale? You know this creature is lycan. Perhaps a woman finely-shaped, but surely not a goddess."

"_Not_ a wives' tales either." The man growled sharply. "_Scryers of fate,_ I tell you, it's a demon that lay buried under there."

"Then we will _hunt_ a demon," Lucian snapped in return, weary of Magnus' superstition and speeding up even further, signalling there would be no more talk of norns and scryers of fate. Stories were stories. This creature planned its actions, it had tracks. The vampire had even used silver against it, and he was _certain_ this was a species of virus, not some mythological creature flying up from a well. _Magnus was being a fool._ _Anything with tracks could be hunted. _In less than an hour, dusk would fall, and the night would become their enemy. Soon there would be no choice but to keep moving. Fate grant him, the Nightrunner had not lied about their mortal target as well, or at this rate, he would be hunting her skin when he returned to Hamburg.

_Not if he returned..._

_When_.

* * *

_A/N: Hope the newest two chapters will satisfy some curiousity. (I was hoping we might have reached Trondheim already, but Lucian and Magnus are still brooding over not being in charge of their own destinies. Perhaps more Lucian than Magnus. At least, Áris is acting much more sensible these days. A bit bloodthirsty, but she keeps herself in order. Nightrunner just lies there plotting. Get up, woman, get up!) Anyway, thanks to Lauren and Mimyr for reviews! To all past and new readership, please feel free to read and review._


	12. Chapter 12: Raven of Mørkehule

**Chapter XII: Raven of Mørkehule**

_The Mørkehule Coven_  
_Time: 2:36 pm_

_A few miles away._

Darkness was falling…

…and in the depths of Mørkehule, a tall, lanky man sat before an enormous wooden table, his hair shining black, his fingers long and sinewy, stretched out upon metal, the other hand covering his face. He was thinking, pensive and alone even when surrounded by a ring of creatures. He did not want them to exist yet, and so they would make no sound. They would make no movement. Twenty-four of them, their sleek bodies tightly covered in black leather, trimmed fur and sharp metal. Guns, knives, and silver holstering them against what awaited outside…water, snow, ice, and blood. The room might have been freezing had they been mortal. Silent, they looked to their leader, waiting for his command, ignoring the screams that emitted from the box on the table. They knew he would send them forth as soon as the sun fell from the sky. They knew he would not dally a second longer than he needed to…for their leader, Hrafn, was not a patient man. His skin had the look of pale marble, brackish-brown eyes pecking irritably at noises from the speakers, his mouth curving into a malcontent sneer at the sound of gun-shots. All of his attention focused on the small metal box and the sound it played for him, over and over again.

They waited, while he burned with the desire to move. Centuries ago, in his youth, he had tried to curb his taste for the blood-rush. For hours, he would stare at a single word on a page, a glass on the sill, a rock in the snow. He had fought the beating in his blood. He had shown them he could wait upon branches, the years it might take before his moment came to strike. Two hundred years, they said. Wait until the time is ripe…but he had not waited. He had stabbed his father in the head and assumed the mantle before his fortieth birthday. Bowing to Viktor and regrettably informing him of Aurelius' untimely death. The Council had been forced to give him a new name in the absence of his father. _No longer Aurelius II…but Hrafn._ _Raven in the old Norse tongue. _Above them, an enormous black, metal circle in the ceiling began to swivel slowly outwards, allowing darkness, snow, and starlight to fall upon their heads.

Hrafn stood up, cutting the last scream off with a finger.

"_Go_," he said.

Immediately, the ring spread out, swift and sure, warriors sprinting to their respective places. The sound of car engines, snow crunching beneath tires. They would go to the complex. They would find the creature that blackened the cameras with blood. They would silence the wolf their comrades had begged upon for mercy. Left behind, the tall raven, Hrafn, sat before his table again, his veins starting to beat, indifferent to the snow drifting down from above. The icy wind that came with an open skylight. But there would be no warmth in this house. _Not now. Not tonight._ Covering his face again, he stretched his hand out and pressed the tiny button on the metal box. In fifteen minutes, he would have news.

_The last scream…_

…_the sound of crunching snow…_

_And then only silence._

He _hated_ waiting. He pressed the button again.

_Screaming…gunshots…the last scream…_

…_the sound of crunching snow…_

_And then only silence._

Twelve times he pressed the button until the phone finally rang, his face growing darker as he listened to the words on the other end. Jora had been among the dead. Though he did not care for her, she would be avenged as his only heir. Moving to a cabinet, he took his knives from the casing. Guns already holstered. Silver-ready bullets and a dark, fur-trimmed coat of lycan leather. A raven feather curling from the cord around his neck. His blood already running before him. Pulsating like the storm from the previous night. He would meet his deathdealers halfway along the track and from there, they would continue following the scent into Trondheim. A secondary force moving down the track from the inside, and a third already combing the city. _Silver, poison, and blood._

_It was time to hunt wolves._

* * *

_A/N: Not much to say...perhaps the quickest chapter I've ever written. Please read and review. (Yes, the confrontation between Lucian and Aris will eventually come...I'm still writing it.) Also please note, in terms of weather, there's only about five hours of light during this particular time of year, hence, the sun setting so early._


	13. Chapter 13: The Bridge of Talons

**Chapter XIII: The Bridge of Talons**

_Trondheim, Norway  
__Time: 4:07 pm_

_Almost there…_

Hunkering down beside a collosal recycling unit, Lucian flexed his back against the dented metal, barely moving a muscle and concentrating all of his energy on keeping silent. _Approximately two miles south of the rails, they had never meant to come this way, but only an hour ago, two dozen vampires blocking the tracks had swiftly altered their course. The creature's as well, judging by the smell. _They were twenty paces from the water, the winding river Nidelva stretching out like a black snake before them. Winter-guarded boats tethered to the darkness, hundreds of lights drawing a warm path along the wharf. The wooden houses flaring up, the wide streets revealing all to the naked eye. The old town bridge just ahead of them, just out of sight. _The trail of aconitum drifting towards it. _On their left, far above the buildings, the tall spire of the Nidaros Cathedral rose sharply, its foundations built on the graves of the massacred dead. _The hidden menace from so long ago. The first boundary to old Trondheim._

_Fate-willing, they would not have to approach it this night._

Keeping his eyes on the ominous spire, Lucian sniffed the air for the hundredth time. _The creature had stopped here a moment…perhaps a quarter of an hour ahead. They would have to follow soon or risk losing it. A faint whiff of sweat from his left. _Painstakingly, he drew his final and most favoured knife from its sheathe. A stag-horn handle with inlayed steel. A gift from _her_. His palm almost caressing the hilt even as he kept it hidden beneath his wrist. Almost eyeing the scent, his periphery vision moved before his muscles.

A faint outline in the corner of his pupils…

_Silver knives, bullets, and poison, the smaller strike forces sprinting ahead. __The full hunt would be upon them in fifteen minutes._ _The hemlock drawing their enemies quickly. Like spartan devils, he hadn't expected them to move so fast._

_So orderly._

Abruptly, his right arm darted to the left, the sharp blade in his hand meeting flesh. Twisting through the stomach and gutting the abdomen. Carefully jerking the blade free, stabbing upwards through the jaw, and wiping the blade clean across the vampire's chest in the same motion. Easing the horned stiletto back into its sheathe and allowing the body to fold back upon itself. His world shrouded in blues, greys, and silver, the sight of the kill. _Always, these vermin insisted on travelling in threes. _Methodical, his eyes flicked to where Magnus crouched over two bodies, teeth bared and visible in the shadows. A woman with her neck broken. The other knifed in the back, her forehead stabbed.

_All in silence._

_Good._

Gravely nodding in approval, Lucian caught Magnus's attention and pointed a thumb up, two fingers flat and then, down. _Time to go. Cross the bridge. Underneath._

The other man shook his head. Three fingers hooked against his thumb, then two fingers flat. _Blend with the crowd. Cross the bridge._

_Blend with the crowd_, thought Lucian. Exhaling, he showed Magnus a flat palm. _Hold. _Squinting at the rooftops, his fingers trailed to his beard, falling again to the knife at his side, the hilt cold within his palm. Persistently watching both ends of the deserted alleyway, seeing the potential scenario before him.

_A dark city in the middle of the afternoon rush. Hundreds of footsteps. Hundreds of unsuspecting mortals, their concerns limited to food, drink, and the latest gift to grace the shop windows. The vampires could be watching, but with that many bystanders, it might be possible to cross in the open. __The old __town bridge, Gamle Bybro. __It was a guaranteed tourist point…nicknamed the Bridge of Luck. _Even if the Bloods did catch on, they were so covert in their warfare, it was uncommon for them to riddle a city with gunfire unless directly provoked.

_At least before the true hours of night._

Running a hand through his temples, his eyes fell on his pack, his clothing…everything in brown, grey and black. Their ability to blend, so to speak. Long hair and a beard could pass for a vegan tourist. Magnus was taller than an oak, but for all intensive purposes, the man blended with his blond countrymen. The guns were dismantled and stowed away. His knives hidden. As long as they crossed quickly, the only thing connecting them to the trail was the hemlock.

_Had to think fast…the scent was drifting._

_Decide._

Stepping clear of the blood spatter, Lucian grimly nodded to Magnus. Three fingers hooked against the thumb. _Blend with the crowd. Cross the bridge._ It was the second set of bodies they'd left behind, but they'd chance it in the open. He motioned the man to leave the vampires where they lay. His hand diving into his pack, searching for some colour. A green scarf, a knitted wool hat. Shaking his locks out, he pulled the warm hat over his ears, finding a matching pair of mittens for his hands. Magnus doing the same. Anything to make them look…_conventional._ His eyes focused on the rooftops, wary of any figures looking to ambush them from above.

_The creature was ahead of them, but the vampires were catching up. Hopefully, the trail would diverge soon so they could be done with this travesty and move on to Corvinus' blood-heir.__ O__nce the scent split, they would have to moderate their pace, making sure the Mørkehule hunters remained close. Always close, but never quite catching. The creature would strike, and they would fall back...and disappear._

_Two traps in one._

Ten seconds later, Lucian left the deserted alleway, stepping onto the busy pavement, forcing a genial smile on his face as he looked back at Magnus. Striding easily into the crowd, a backpacker and his best mate looking for a pub. Halting by the docks, like so many others, gaping at the beauty of the wharves. The two of them almost kneeling on the wood, leaning over to stare in awe at the reflecting lights. The scent of aconitum on his breath. Breathing it in, Lucian removed a digital camera from his pack, snapping quick photos from different angles before moving on towards the bridge, casually walking as if they had all the time in the world. Another tourist. Another soul hungering after the splendour of old Trondheim. The words turning in his mind…

_Not too close, not too far away…_

…_but cornered._

…_o…o…o…_

_Gamle Bybro__, Trondheim  
__Time: 4:15 pm_

Five minutes later, they stood at the foot of the old town bridge. A rustic old thing fashioned of wood and concrete. Enormous red gates silhouetted in the darkness, warm lanterns fixed to the centre of each arch. The glow of fire on snow. Black wheels attached to the posts. Approximately ten meters wide, it could hold only pedestrian traffic. Hand-rails along the side to stop fools from falling into water, and the Gate of Fortune standing at the west end. _Rumour had it, dreams would come true if you fervently wished for them while crossing Gamle Bybro, t__he Bridge of Luck. _

_Only dreams_, thought Lucian distantly, stepping onto the famous bridge.

Forward, the lycans walked, breathing the night like a thread drawing them on. _Hemlock and aconitum entwined in the frigid air. A slight hint of blood for those who had a nose for it. Beneath that, cigarette smoke, alcohol...perfume and aftershave. _There were many upon the bridge. One in every six a student, their faces bright and unsullied. Laughing with each other, taking a break from the end of year exams. The early days of December drawing them to the core of the city, the old university just visible in the background. Calm, Lucian pushed through the lively crowd, keeping Magnus at his side. His unconcerned gaze trailing through the group, searching for black. Silver. Trench-coats. An unnervingly fluid walk. Anything that might be following.

He frowned momentarily. _Nothing._

_Either these vampires were good or his luck was holding. _Already, they were halfway across the bridge. Only a few paces and they would pass beneath the Gate of Fortune. _So far so good. _Turning to Magnus, he nodded at the angular peak of the western gate, bringing out the camera for another snapshot. The sentry house just creeping into the corner of the lens, the old building now used as a day-care. Still open at this hour, a few children played loudly within, their games requiring supervision while their parents worked. He zoomed in closer. _Barely visible around the edge of the roof. Twelve skulking figures waiting with their eyes trained on the bridge. __Twelve in front meant twelve behind._

_His luck had just run out._

Taking two more pictures, he beckoned to Magnus, showing the digital pictures and murmuring something trivial about rustic carpentry. Laughing, Magnus nodded and casually swiped the camera, holding it up and flicking through the pictures. Still smiling, Lucian pointed to the railing, seemingly curious to look upon the wharves one final time. Leaning against the metal and gripping Magnus by the shoulder, keeping his back to the western Gate of Fortune so they could take one more picture before leaving the bridge…

"One for the road," laughed Magnus, raising the camera so they'd both be in the picture.

_"Get off the bridge,"_ Lucian murmured tightly, grinning and barely moving his lips…

_"We can still retreat,"_ the other man replied, still smiling with the words scarcely audible beneath his breath...

The camera flashed.

Without missing a beat, Magnus handed the camera to Lucian and leaned down, dropping his pack to the ground. Frowning as he began searching through his pockets. Ignoring the twelve deathdealers waiting by the wings of the old sentry house. Eying the Nidaros cathedral and growing increasingly flustered, the man continued to search distractedly, abruptly shaking his head. Shrugging his shoulders at Lucian as if to say… _Must have left it behind._

Keeping the charade, Lucian rolled his eyes, looking into his own backpack and finding a wallet. Looking through it and then gesturing back in the general direction of the university. Apparently disappointed they would have to return to the other side of the river, but realizing it was important for his best mate. _After all, they needed money to visit the Nidaros Cathedral Museum. _Supportive, he clapped Magnus on the shoulder and together, they casually turned back towards the eastern side of the bridge. Winding their way right and losing themselves in the crowd. _Perhaps they could make it._ _Vampires had a penchant for cornering their prey, but maybe the situation wasn't as bad as he always assumed. _They reached the eastern side of the bridge and stopped behind a group of laughing youths. The eastern gate barred by a wall of deathdealers. A dozen of them staring at him as if he were the festival supper. Baked, boiled, and served with blood.

_They were cornered._

Making no pretence anymore, Lucian pulled his hood over his head and began to stalk fluidly towards the centre of the bridge, Magnus gravitating towards his left flank. Smiles dropping, their steps barely audible through the snow, balancing their weight easily. People stepped out of the way, unnerved by the grim faces and sensing that something was wrong. _Sleek vampires weaving through the mortal crowd around them. Stealthily moving closer, leaving enough distance, but essentially herding them._ _Mørkehule was doing better than he'd given them credit for. Twenty-four in total, they must have been hanging beneath the bridge, climbing up as soon as they saw the lycans were mid-way. It was debatable whether his original plan to go underneath would have ended any different._ He halted, reaching the centre of the bridge, his eyes darting around. His body starting to twist and turn, eyeing the environment. Too many bystanders for this to turn into an open clash…

_...but they needed an exit._

Calmly, Lucian's eyes flicked to the right and behind him. _If they Changed, they forfeited clothing, supplies, and weaponry. The water was calm beneath them…freezing. As an alternative, they could jump as humans, grip the underside of the bridge, and claw their way across. The blessing of Corvinus made it possible for both vampires and lycans to defy gravity at times. Reflex kinesthetics, so to speak. Any vampires still hanging beneath could be dispatched with claws. The surrounding mortals would assume they'd hit the water…and the shock of a double-suicide would draw every bystander to the handrails. It would slow the vampires down. Buy them a few extra minutes to make the escape._

_Unless they fell..._

"You know if we _miss_, the water is _freezing_," Magnus grunted softly at Lucian, eyeing one of the vampires circling them. A tall blond man, blue-eyed and pale, smiling strangely. The vampire disappeared into the crowd, replaced by another. Hard-faced creatures all of them, their hands trailing to where guns must lie beneath. It wouldn't be long before they executed their right to genocide rather than capture...but then Mørkehule had a wondrous reputation for torture. Perhaps they were holding their fire for the sake of the next twenty-four hours when they could strip the skin from their prey's back.

"A fall is better than a silver bullet in the eye," Lucian observed quietly, studying the hard faces from the corner of his hood. _He supposed they could still make a run for it…but it was unlikely to do much good. The vampires would either wound or kill at the first obvious hint of flight. Torture was the least of his worries at this point. If they were captured, all it took was a council member. Any one would remember his face in a heartbeat…and frankly, he didn't fancy being interrogated about his pendant this night._

_Damn blending with the crowd. Damn the hemlock._

He eyed Magnus.

"You first?"

Abruptly shots rang out.

Screams coming from the old sentry house, the crowd starting to churn. Panicking mortals running back from the western end, pushing their way across the bridge. Immediately darting from the handrails, he and Magnus forced their way into the rushing mob. The hard-face momentarily barricading their way, his teeth bared, an index finger crooked around a gun trigger. Before the man could fire, Magnus ducked, slashing the man's legs out from beneath him. Lucian falling upon him with a knife, the blade slicing in and out, through the ear and along the neck. People too frightened to look down at those who had fallen. Leaping over the bodies, they sprinted on, dashing along the sidewalk of the bridge and bypassing the fleeing crowd. Stabbing another vampire through the neck and slashing across the waist of another. People on cell-phones, running, some crouching by the handrails, screaming as more gun-shots rang out. A flare in the distance suggesting fire.

Under the cover of screams, they broke out of the mob, running with the devil behind them, not even bothering to slow down as their eyes narrowed on the red pillars of the Gate of Fortune. Car-alarms going off, the sound of sirens in the distance. Broken glass and the snow covered in blood. At least half a dozen bodies carved against the gate. The blond vampire lying in the snow with his head cut off. The sound of children crying from within the old sentry house. In the back of his mind, he hoped their caretakers had barricaded them into the building.

_The building..._

Abruptly, Lucian skidded to a halt in mid-stride, his eyes narrowing on the bloody tableau.

_No._

_Just out of the corner of his vision…_

Wires manhandled along the sentry house. Above him, gleaming fluorescent lights flickering from a broken second floor window. His full gaze darting back to the bloodstained snow on the bridge. The broken glass from the car window. _Well, fuck...me, _he thought grimly, staring in veiled shock at the reality of the Nightrunner's vision. _Fluorescent lights flickering…the blood stains, the broken glass. _In shock, he sniffed the air for the first time since they'd begun sprinting. His nose targeting the smells. Darting to the right and the left. His head starting to shake…

_No…not now._

…_the scent had just split._

_It was all happening too soon._

_Not too soon, _he frowned suddenly at his own thought, seeing the game around him. _The creature was right on target. It knew they were in danger...it was behind them. It was in front of them. It had been with them the entire way. _His mind shoving his knowledge of the hunt into a cohesive and logical playing field. _Protective, it wanted them alive and untainted. Selfish, it wanted to kill them itself...b__ut not yet._

_The creature was waiting for something._

From the east, another volley of gunshots abruptly bit through the air, Lucian's head twisting to stare around. The crowd was starting break, the vampires already firing upwards, using fear to rid themselves of superfluous mortals. Their pursuers would be out of the mob in seconds. Growling from behind, Magnus pushed him roughly forward, yelling "_move!"_ and pointing to the left. Cobblestone streets. Shops, restaurants and pubs. They were past the border into old Trondheim, and heading towards the cathedral.

_The cathedral?_ For a split-second, Lucian stood, staring at Magnus' back. Shots behind them. _The hemlock went right, the aconitum left. _Darting into a sprint, he followed after Magnus and the aconitum. _The creature wanted them to go to the cathedral. _Pelting down rapidly deserting streets, his eyes searched for another exit. Superstition aside, they could _not_ enter that cathedral. _The rooftops, the buildings...anywhere but there. _Ahead of him, Magnus suddenly swerved to the cobble-stone ground, crouching in the snow and forcing one of the manholes open, the symbol of Trondheim barely visible on the heavy metal: _two men facing one another, a bishop and a judge._ The scent of aconitum continued on towards the cathedral, but they paid it no heed. _The vampires were behind. Going underground was better than nothing._

Seizing a handgun from within his coat, Lucian plummeted into the hole, landing easily and leaping to the side of the wall, looking left and right, his finger a split-second away from firing. _Empty_. Magnus leaped down beside him, dragging the manhole cover back into place above them. Total darkness, but the nightvision kicked in swiftly. Eyes of silvery white. _No sense waiting for the cavalry to arrive. _Taking a turn in the direction from which they came, they loped through the sewers, sprinting on pathways above the water, hardly aware of their direction only to know they were heading _away_ from the old cathedral. _No longer could he begrudge Magnus' fear of the old well. In the past half hour, every instinct had kicked in, and even as an alpha, Lucian knew when to flee that which was wrong in his estimate._

Finally, they halted at an intersection, still sucking the air in heavily. Swallowing and forcing themselves to silence. Crouching in a stony dark nook and listening to the sounds around them. Running water. The stench of sewage. The air pitch-black around them. _Luck holding, the vampires had not entered the darkness of the old sewers. The creature surely had not entered. __Surely, _Lucian prayed silently to Fate, fervently wishing upon the bridge of luck as if it could have any effect in the depths of old Trondheim. Three minutes they stood waiting, and then nodding, Lucian released his breath and vacated the nook they stood in. _They had to keep moving._ _At least a few more blind turns before they found another manhole to place themselves within the city. Think quick, move fast. _Kneeling momentarily, he searched through his pack, finding a compass, his eyes gleaming as he stared at the tiny dial. _North_...which unfortunately, pointed directly into the wall of stone at their backs. Sniffing, he ignored his companion. _Magnus was glaring at him again. They were still breathing, weren't they? _They needed to get back to the rails. Frowning, he looked to the passage they came from...

_South_.

_Which left only_ _two ways they could go in this particular corridor..._

"Left or right," he muttered at Magnus.

"_Drop _the hemlock," the man whispered back, the words close to being ripped from his teeth.

"Left it is," Lucian replied quietly, his talons growing, reaching into the pack for the grubby remains of the plant. Allowing it to trail into the icy running water of the sewer system. The smell still upon them, but muted rather than potent. He sniffed the air again before turning left…ice, sewage, and hemlock on the draft._ So the plant had backfired. No trail to follow now._

_But no matter…_

_Fuck the vampires, _he thought callously_. An ambush probably wouldn't have worked anyway, and though they still had to deal with this hell-hound of a creature, they still had a tiny reason to celebrate. The bloody sight of that bridge had given them the first edge they had had since coming to this godforsaken place. The fervent dream of the gate of Fortune. Fluorescent lights flickering…Blood stains, and broken glass._

_He had seen it…_

…_which meant the Nightrunner had spoken truth._

Spying the hint of success for the first time in several hours, Lucian unwittingly began to smile at the darkness, walking silently through the underground. His left fingers curled around the blade in his hand, his right around the gun. _For the time being, the odds were in his favour. The creature could not kill him until the rest of the vision occurred_. _He knew that as surely as Liam once did…_

…_and if this creature thought to take him down as easily as a three-century old wounded pup, then it had another thing coming._

_Old bottles and the brown suitcase were next._

_...o...o...o..._

_The Sewers, Trondheim  
Time: 4:47 pm_

Watching them go, Áris gracefully uncurled her back from the stone, silently lowering her body so that her fingers hovered only an inch from the water. Catching the drifting hemlock in her talons, she drew it up to the ceiling where she lurked. Cold she was, her body the temperature of the icy water running the course of the sewers. Silent, her breath slower than the algae sliming its way down the walls. She smelled of the sewers, her limbs and body rubbed with every foul substance to grace the watery aqueduct below. The lycans had spurned her lure. They did not _want_ to go near the cathedral grounds, but before the night was done, she would have them there. She would satisfy the Nightrunner's retribution on the steps of that hallowed place. Smelling the scent of them. _Leather, oak, and gun oil. Pine and hemp._ Deeply, she longed to hunt them down this very second...

_...but the vision had not lied. _

_The hunt would go the way the Nightrunner wanted it to go._

The lycans too far to hear her movements, she quietly dropped to the pathway, keeping the broken blade of her weapon from scraping against the walls. The vampires were still following...but for now, she would continue to slay them before they even neared her prey. Facing south and steeling herself, she beheaded the first creature, disembowling the second and drowning the third. _Almost as an after-thought, she recalled where her fanged brethren had come from. Mørkehule. Names had changed, but perhaps some remnant of the old world had stayed behind._ Her eyes growing colder than ice. Perhaps when the next trio caught up, she would question the final one before his end. _It did not matter...but she almost wanted to know what Aurelius would say if he knew she were down here. He had buried her in the first place after all._

_How was her coven faring under that traitor's leadership? _At the thought, her eyes widened suddenly. A shocking innocence in them for all that she was a creature of dark deeds. _No longer her coven._

_No longer her people..._

Wiping the blade upon the vampire and allowing sewage to collect upon the unseeing eyes, Áris rose from the water, her gaze momentarily turning south towards the old cathedral. _Not yet._ Swallowing her longing, she stowed the broken blade beneath her coat. Her steps taking her east and down the corridor the lycans had entered only ten minutes past. _Old bottles and the brown suitcase were next. A straight-back chair by the window ledge. The tracks... perhaps even sooner than this...Lucian...expected. And wherever he surfaced, the aconitum would return. The hemlock would return. _Inwardly, she laughed, almost wanting to clap her hands together, pleased with the trap she had laid. Her enemies never understood the child-look pleasure she took during a hunt..._and yet this Lucian had the most wonderful way of misinterpreting her actions. The perfect prey... _Hungry for the kill, she inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of the lycan. _Many years ago, she had learned of the kill. She had hunted wolves down with a swift and sure hand...until the day her wolves in turn taught her how to hunt vampires..._

Exhaling, the memories drew her into the past again...

_The memory of her wolves..._

_In the end, she had betrayed them._

She blinked in the darkness, her shoulders starting to droop. Her neck falling back, raising her face to the unseen night. Her eyes green once more, drawing her into the present. Water on her face. It was fitting that she would return to the cathedral before this night was done. The pain of her memories and what she had done in the past. _For a moment, she almost pitied this one. This creature of the guardian-race. Striking in his manner. A bona fide leader._ _She had such a taste for leaders...but she had a debt to pay. _Her lips drew back, amused once again by the creature she hunted. _There was no room for pity during the hunt. Once the vision was complete, she would drive him into the cathedral and then the ground. For the Nightrunner had been wronged. The seer must always have vengeance._

With new resolve, Áris quickened her pace, keeping her presence unnoticed. Trailing after the lycans who would not see her until it was too late, stalking her prey silently through the underground. The glint of teeth as she smiled, the words turning in her mind. The first lesson taught to her so many years ago, the wolves' mantra still hanging on her breath…

_Not too close, not too far away…_

_…but cornered._

_He would be dead before she made him kneel at the altar of Nidaros._

* * *

A/N: JohnnyHasTheKeys, JenRock, Kim, and NeverEndingNights, thank you for the latest reviews! I'll try and keep up the details.

Yay, we're in Trondheim! In terms of chapter XIII, Gamle Bybro does exist as well as the Nidaros Cathedral. (Pictures can be found online.) Once again, the actual confrontation between Lucian and Áris has been moved over to chapter XIV. (Though you must admit, Áris is much closer than she was last chapter. She's practically on their heels.)

Please read and review.


	14. Chapter 14: A Sense of Longing

**Chapter XIV: A Sense of Longing**

_The Sewers, Trondheim  
Time: 5:14 pm_

_Almost thirty minutes had passed and still no manhole._

"_Bloods_, are we not _there_ yet," Lucian muttered with some frustration, stopping momentarily to squint at the ceiling. Every intersection identical to the one before. Solid stone above and around, the walls covered in slime. Magnus was notably silent on the subject. The water had slowed to a trickle, barely enough to cover their soles. The rotting smell of sewage wherever they stepped, coating their skin and clothing. The compass pointed north, but the blasted thing kept twitching. His sense of direction was becoming skewered in the darkness. He resumed his pace, forced to go left again. Three more turns. Again, they faced north. The ceiling solid and an enormous metal grate blocking their way.

_Echoing silence…_

Staring at the dead-end, he frowned, considering the path they had already taken. Too many turns for a common sewer. They must be traversing old Trondheim, the portion of the sewer system mirroring the invisible lines of the historic city as it once was. The tunnel beyond the grate providing a potential access point from above…or leading deeper into the city. Pensive, he scratched his beard irritably. It would take strength to barge through the metal gates. Too much for a mortal form...and he was not willing to _change_ unless it was truly worth it. Trying his best to exhale the scent of rotting garbage, Lucian turned around to face Magnus. His companion about three paces behind, crouching with his arms folded, balancing his pack and seemingly resigned to their predicament.

"Any thoughts," he murmured pointedly to Magnus, inclining his head in question.

"We turn around," Magnus replied just as directly, standing up slowly, stooping due to the height and moving closer to the grate. Spitting on his sleeve, the man cleaned a tiny portion of the slimy rods, the metal starting to gleam. A bluish grey tint in the world of shadows. In the dark, Lucian felt his jaw tighten.

"Well, it would be, wouldn't it?" he said bitterly, eyeing the metal with some disdain…reaching his hand out and recklessly touching the barrier for a moment, the quiet sound of hissing where his thumb pressed against the metal. Flame against flesh, burning into his skin. The silver so covered in grime, he hadn't even noticed. Only a small layer, but enough to stop anyone from traversing where they were not welcome. He should have seen the danger. Even in the dark, he should have seen.

Scowling, he turned around, brushing past Magnus. They would have to retrace their steps. The more water there was, the closer they were to the regular system. Purposeful, he quickened his pace, loping down the turns and moving towards the sound of water. His mind working out the foreign abnormalities in his surroundings. Several points which had been bothering him in the past few minutes. _They were on level ground. The grate had been tarnished from the moisture, which suggested water normally flowed in that part of the sewers. Strange that things had become so quiet._ His ears catching the sound of dripping ahead of them…the incessant noise of slimy water plummetting into a pool.

_T__hey were on level ground..._

_...so why had the water tapered?_

Slowing to a quiet walk, Lucian turned slightly, keeping his back to the wall, his hands moving, gripping the knife and speaking a silent language to his comrade. Dropping the curt signals of battle for the more conversational style._ "Magnus," _he signed, the thoughts moving swifter than the sign-language he used… _"The water is slow. Why?"_

"_Blocked," _the man signed back, squinting behind and in front as they walked. _"Happens sometimes."_

"_Surely_ _not here," _Lucian frowned, his eyebrows raised in question, brushing his right thumb under his chin and forward. Palms moving back and forth in front. Shaking his head, he returned his attention forward, his blade once again firmly in his hand. Squinting into the darkness ahead, just able to discern the curve of the tunnel ahead of them. They were turning right…another intersection around the corner. _Too much sewage to get a good grip on the smells_...but then he'd always had a wonderful nose for when things were about to go sour. From the grate, he knew the vampires were familiar with this maze. The lack of water meant something was obstructing the flow. It could be regular blockage...

_...yet he doubted it._

Moving his blade to his left hand, Lucian calmly drew the handgun again. _Ultraviolet bullets._ Folding his left palm behind him, he signed the word "_silence_" to Magnus, their steps now barely discernable, stalking forward, weaponry gripped tight in hand. Leaning his head back slightly, he allowed his hood to fall back, the peripheral vision of lycans widening his centre field of view. Silent hunters, they approached the sound of dripping. The tunnel around the corner, just before the intersection. Stopping at the edge, his nose started to tense…

_Sewage…_

_Hemlock…_

…_and…_

"_Oh for fuck's sake," _Lucian thought almost wearily, peering around the corner into the darkness of the intersection. Staring at the bodies piled up against the water flow, the eyes empty of life, sewage piled against the flesh to staunch the blood flow. Guns stuck in another pile along the path. The water below freezing, diluting what plasma had spilled. Another time of year, they might have smelled it earlier. Another time of year, they wouldn't even have been here. _Did it have to leave cadavers everywhere?_ Counting in his head, he calculated the body count…

_In the last twenty-four hours, the creature had taken out at least a quarter of Mørkehule's fighting force…_

_Could it be William?_

Throwing the thought aside momentarily, he forced his attention on the practical gravity of the situation. Leaning back against the corner and raising a finger to his lips, cautioning Magnus to silence and edging closer, his ears straining forward. Listening carefully and guarding himself against a _sudden_ _change_ that might betray their presence. His eyes threatening to glint silver. Fangs already growing. It was an ongoing trial to retain every component of the human form when confronted with blood. Bones aching to transform. His mind holding his body and his thoughts in a firm grip. _The creature had followed them into the sewers. But for how long? When did the water start to slow? When... _Forcing himself to remember, he timed his recent memories. _At least fifteen minutes ago. The bodies here for at least fifteen minutes._ Inhaling silently, he moved forward into the present surroundings, his eyes darting from the ceilings to the intersecting tunnels. The way they came. Watching, waiting..._only_ _silence everywhere_. The creature was definitely in the sewers, but for the time being it seemed to have left the kill-site. Pointing behind him, he signalled Magnus to watch his back. Crouching forward, moving on his haunches and approaching the pile of victims…_six bodies._

_Two scouting teams._

_If the creature had not so violently taken to eating its own kind, he might have enlisted it._

_A born killer…_

…_which unfortunately, did not move in his favour._

Keeping an eye on the dark tunnels ahead, Lucian immediately searched for that inkling which had bothered him since seeing the blond vampire's head on the bridge. _Every victim they had seen at the well had been torn. The carnal tearing of flesh and sinew, the enemies of a lycan ripped apart in cold blood. O__n the bridge however__…the vampire's head had been lopped off. _Already aware of what he would find, Lucian pushed one of the victims' arms to the side with his knife. The stab wound in the heart. About three inches wide. The entry wound somewhat jagged…a broken blade. _Not just a born killer then. The creature was a warrior. __An assassin from the old age._

Slowly backing away from the bodies, Lucian looked behind him. Magnus crouching silently, his gun pointed at the eastern tunnel. The man nudged his head towards it, drawing his attention to the opening. Rising from the ground, Lucian turned and stared at the gaping hole, his eyes narrowing, the silver gleam of anger crossing his sight. _T__he creature had retrieved the hemlock he had dropped. It had stuffed it in one of three bottles sitting in the corner of the tunnel. The plant worn from the hours it had spent in his pack. The two other bottles holding lures as well...a__ piece of aconitum in the second. Half a pint of blood in the third._

_The fourth piece of the vision._

_Old bottles._

_The vision was quickening. _The scent of aconitum entwining itself through the air, curling itself around him like an old lover. The scent of blood drawing him towards _change_. Every muscle tightening and loosening itself as he fought to control himself. _This was no happenstance...the creature was connected to every step of the Nightrunner's words, dogging his steps, hunting him as quarry. _He could feel the gait of a wolf in the back of his limbs…and in the back of his conscience, he could feel Magnus' hand pressing onto his shoulder. Frowning behind him, Lucian shook the hand off. _He was in control of his form…he would not change. _His head twisting towards the eastern tunnel as the sound suddenly rushed upon his ears.

_Footsteps…_

_...half a dozen yards down the eastern tunnel._

_The scent of blood in the tunnels. The hemlock..._

Squinting, Lucian took a step forward…his eyes tailing the sound as the creature moved. Down the tunnel and to his left. _Barely discernable, the wet sound of boots treading forward. Tempting the hunter to throw himself headlong into the tunnel. Every instinct daring him to hunt. Hunt. The aconitum calling him, luring him. _Straining, he took another step forward, watching the darkness, looking deeper into the gaping hole of the eastern tunnel. _Long ago, he might have taken the bait, the chase this creature promised him_. _It knew what he hungered for. The age when lycans had been the hunters. More than daylight guardians, more than wolf-hounds of the ancient world. Blood-hunters. Immortal slaves used for their hunger and their ability to track. This creature knew he could hunt it. Knew he had been the greatest of blood-hunters. The greatest of warriors. _The secrets hidden within. The creature in the tunnel. He took another step forward, again shaking off the hand on his shoulder. _He would not hunt it...he would not change._

_But if they could catch a glimpse… _

Abruptly, the footsteps accelerated…

_Faster…_

…_the headlong clatter of a tearing run._

_It was fleeing._

Snarling, Lucian flung his pack to the ground and hurled himself into the tunnel, his legs attacking the stones, his wolfish body tearing down the twists and turns of the maze-like sewer, barely aware of Magnus left behind. _Faster...faster._ Half in the throes of change, he hunted the creature. Left…right…right…left. Never catching up, the creature always just ahead of his run. He was gaining on it. Right…left…right again. He could sense it just around the corner, the knife cold in his hand, his fangs sharp before him, his throat loosing a howling growl which echoed down the tunnels…

_The scent of flames…_

_...fire._

Alone, he skidded to a halt, gritting his teeth against sudden blindness and masking his eyes with his arm. His vision thrown by the bright, burning light at the intersection's centre, his steps darting backwards and slashing the air as he turned. The graceful steps of a warrior versed in the art of fighting blind. Squinting, he forced himself to see. His eyes cracking open and ignoring the pain…adjusting quickly. _His boots trampling the fresh sprig of hemlock left on the stone._ _The space was wider this time…higher. An intersection of four tunnels, a bevy of pipes running along the walls. Another set of bodies piled to his right, the blood warm and gushing from their dismembered limbs. An enormous flame-ravaged pyre burning in the centre of the square room, the smell of leather crisping with hemlock and sewage. The leathery material crackling like a match. A pile of clothing burning upon an old suitcase. The scent engulfing him…flames, leather, and hemlock._

_A brown suitcase…_

_...the fifth piece of the vision._

_Footsteps to his left._

Baring his teeth, he twisted, shoving the blade sideways, slashing at empty shadows. Open space…_a figure to his right!_ Breathing into motion, he arched, stabbing through his peripheral vision, the sound of metal glancing off stone. Behind. In front. He stabbed into emptiness, his eyes widening. _Nothing. The room was empty. _Curling his fingers into the hilt, he snarled, eyeing the possible trails the creature could have taken. _One of three facing tunnels, each with a sprig of hemlock hung from the ceiling. The scent masking the trail, the light burning his eyes._ _The clatter of glass from the left. The splash of water from the right._

_The echoing footsteps from the centre tunnel. _

Lucian growled at the sound, his eyes turning to slits. This was a trap, and he would follow no longer. Grey eyes reflecting the rage caught within…his gaze cutting through the inferno. _The burning pyre. Breathing it in, the glow of heat, the flames licking the charred woman at its centre. Her small body curled into that of a broken doll, her spine snapped. A victim burning before him. The scent of flame…scorching, searing, smouldering. Not only clothing then. __The creature dared to burn a dead vampire in front of him._

"_What do you want of me?!" _he snarled into the flames.

The footsteps stopped.

_Silence_. Only silence.

Breathing the stench and leaning with his back against the wall, he waited for the creature to move. Starting to slowly twist and turn his blade, easing himself into the sharp meditation of light glancing off metal. His eyes following every corner, every shadow of the room...

_Oh he was weary of this creature. Weary of this game. Weary of the brutal rage that lay beneath his cold exterior. Flame, scorching, searing and smouldering. That which followed him always…that which he could not ignore. The hell he had lived in for almost eight hundred years… _his eyes upon the pyre. _Finally, he had left the flames when she came._ _The sea sweeping upon the tides, quenching his anger. At times treacherous, her voice harsh, callous and cold. Tranquil when he raged, incensed when he neglected her. Strange beauty from the tracks, she that soothed the pain of his memories. She that gave him that which he had forgotten since the night of his first wife's death._

_Enough, _he thought, his fangs drawing back.

The skin tightening, the bones of his neck growing taut along the jawline. His face harsh in the smouldering light, shoulders arching against his spine, tearing the coat from his back. The absence of warmth that shielded him from ice and cold. The heat of flame on his skin, his bones shooting upwards, the sharp twist of muscle and sinew. _The rage of the past two years eating away his human form as if it were parchment. _Over seven feet tall, he rose from the ground, his fur black as midnight, rising from a crest, his skull swelling forward. Twisted yellow claws curling from his hands, his limbs writhing against the heightened ceiling, scratching against the stone.

Complete, he snapped his teeth throught the air and _howled_, daring the creature to show itself. Challenging this ancient one to leave its hiding place and fight. _For he had the rage to fight this creature. Rage that his mistress...his mate would be dead within the month. Thirsty and forced to return to the hell of his old memories, he had watched her dying, quickened her dying, leaving her to the trial, the wolves, the Council. Disregarding and persecuting his lover. Neglecting and ignoring the anguish and the pain. She who might have been his wife had they lived in another life. _

_He had lost her._

_He had betrayed her._

_Nightrunner._

_The thought inflaming him even further. _Again, he roared, challenging the creature. Eager to whet his talons in battle. His fury carrying the unheard words… _Alone, he stood in this place. All were gone. The angel was gone. The sea was dried up. Only flames and this creature left. This assassin. He had no doubts it could see him now, this foreign wolf. This unleashed fury. In moments, it would understand fury._

He would _show_ this creature his fury…

_Finally, as if it understood his thoughts, the creature unfolded from the darkness._ …_from the shadows, she emerged, her body wrapped and hidden among her desecrated victims._ _Her clothing covered in blood and grime._ _Her eyes targeting him as she stepped into the light. The flames upon her face. She…_

He felt his breath catch. _She…_

_She was…_

His eyes widening.

_The control of his bodily form slipping…_

_His rage folding under pain…_

Groaning, Lucian staggered, suddenly helpless as the _Change_ was wrenched from his grasp. The worst kind of Change, wild and uncontrolled. _Pain_. The mantle of wolves cracking and twisting him back into human form, the skin slow to follow and forcing him to the ground even as Winter threw herself upon him. The cold biting into his bare skin, the burning pyre barely keeping him from freezing. The knife fallen to his side. Dragging himself to his knees, he curled forward, shivering against the stone and trying to find room in his chest to breathe…unable to control his lungs. The dull ache in his chest…his lips unable to speak. Ice sucking the strength from his arms. His eyes caught by the creature who stood before him.

_A woman…_

_Her face pale as ivory, the curve of her cheek smooth as if sculpted by Pygmalion himself. Her body strong, the muscles taut and well formed. The nails sharp beneath the glimmer of fire, flexing as she turned towards him. Her jaw raised in arrogant pleasure, the soft laughter hinting at the teeth of an immortal. Hair as black as obsidian. _

_A sense of longing._

_It was…_

_No._

He shook his head forcefully, backing away on his hands and knees. _It was impossible. His memories shot. Unable to comprehend. _Grasping forward against the stone floor, feeling his sanity slipping, Lucian wrapped his frozen fingers around the hilt of the sharp blade, pointing it towards the woman. Unable to stand and curling himself closer to the pyre. _The face was different. She was dead. The face had to be different. He was going mad._

"You are _not_ her," he whispered roughly.

The woman did not answer.

Instead, she took a step forward, her head turning slightly to the side, the locks falling forward to cover one eye. Her lips parted. Hungrily. Gracefully, the lady bowed before him, the trench-coat falling open slightly, revealing the broken blade creeping from her side. Wrapping her fingers around the hilt, she drew it from her belt. Weighing it in her palm before assuming the stance of an assassin.

_Begin_, her eyes said.

* * *

_**A/N:** Well, that was unexpected. Yes, there is a good reason why Áris looks like Sonja, and no, she's not Sonja's mother (that would be wrong on many levels.) Also, due to Underworld III coming out, I'm trying to coordinate any visuals of Sonja with Rhona Mitra. Try watching the Doomsday trailer...still not sure if she's going blond for the film or not. __Currently working on Chapter XV. __Please do read and review._

_**JohnnyHasTheKeys, NeverEndingNights, and Kim:** Thank you for the latest reviews! They keep me writing._

_**Additional References:** For the purpose of lycan lore, there are several kinds of Change within this story. Most are controlled, and therefore not as painful (particularly as lycans grow older and become used to the process.) In this chapter, however, you get a taste of what it's like to go through an uncontrolled change. Much more painful (kind of like Michael's first change in Underworld.) I would expect Lucian hasn't had one of those for a very long time. (He's usually so very controlled.)_


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